


Oblivious

by kiwipixel77



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Imperial Dragonborn, One Shot Collection, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 135,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwipixel77/pseuds/kiwipixel77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DEAD. SEE NEW STORY OBLIVIOUS: REDUX FOR UPDATED VERSION.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friends

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hey readers! So after my one-shot "Last Letter" (which you should totally read if you're in the mood for sadness) I decided that I'd continue on with the story of Lydia and the Dragonborn. Well, not really continue on, but sort of building from it. My Dragonborn is the same guy here as in that story.
> 
> So I guess this is not really a collection of one-shots. But I guess it kind of is. I'm not really sure. It will be chapters based on moments in time where, at first, Lydia starts to fall for him, up until she realises she loves him, and continuing on to her trying, desperately, to get his attention. But of course our favourite hero remains completely oblivious. And the Housecarl is, as always, socially awkward and fails miserably. We'll see where this goes.
> 
> And I realise this whole Lydia+Dragonborn thing is kind of overdone, but whatever. I'm such a rebel.
> 
> Anyways, read on, and please review with any thoughts/criticism/flames/whatever! I'd just really appreciate some feedback.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia and the Dragonborn become friends.

Lydia was jerked awake to a distant howl piercing the cold starry night. She was frightened for a moment, and dazedly pulled the furs closer to her, but she relaxed after she heard the crackling of a fire and saw the light flicker through the grimy hide tent walls. Her eyes were puffy from sleeplessness and she should have tried to fall back asleep, but in all honesty she had been having a nightmare and was silently thankful for the wolf’s wail. Of course she would never mention this to anyone.

So she lay there for a few moments, listening to the fire, trying to forget what had startled her in her dreams. She sighed, accepting that she couldn’t while laying here, and with reluctance she threw the warm furs off her body and slowly, stiffly, rose. Her back ached from too many nights sleeping on the ground, and lately from sleeping in her armour. She could not afford the comfort in exchange for a surprise attack in the night. For her Thane’s life.

She crawled out of the tent on all fours, iron armour scraping against the barren rock, and she stood up with a stretch, pulling out the tautness and smoothing her aching muscles as she breathed deeply of the fresh cool air. She shivered in the breeze and looked around.

She and her Thane had been on a mission in the Reach for the Companions the past week, and making their way back to Whiterun had them camped on the grassy hills just west of Rorikstead. Soon they would be back in Whiterun Hold, and not a moment too soon. Lydia _hated_ the Reach with a passion. Well, not the Reach, to be exact, but the fact that astonishingly large bands of crazed Forsworn had attempted, many times, to eradicate the travelling duo. And they weren’t above night raids on their little camp, hence why the Housecarl had been sleeping in her armour.

Her Thane had decided to pitch their tent near a rather steep cliff, which incited her protests, but she humbly agreed with him after he explained to her that the cliff meant the Forsworn could only attack from one side. Not to mention the large lone pine tree nearby which helped to block out the frigid westerly autumn winds. But she had to admit the view was breathtaking. The vast open sky created a sense of endless freedom that, though she was used to the sweeping plains of Whiterun, had a different feel. Wild, feral even, and more alive. She could see the lights of Rorikstead in the distance, and she thought if she squinted hard enough that the fires in Solitude were the  cause of those faint twinkling lights to the north.

She cautiously stepped closer to the ledge to get a better look at those lights, but a voice from the darkness made her jump in fright for the second time that night.

“Don’t get too close, Lydia. I _really_ don’t feel like climbing down there and scraping you off the rocks.”

She whipped her head around and there was her Thane, sitting on a rock near the fire with a sly smile on his dark face and amusement in his eyes. She glared at him. She forgot he was on guard duty.

“Of course, _my Thane_ ,” she said with a hint of irritation. “I wouldn’t want you to trouble yourself.” She probably shouldn’t have spoken to her Thane in this manner, but he had scared her, and he knew it. She tensed in anticipation of his rebuke.

He merely laughed. She relaxed.

He was not one to order people around, and he never got angry with her. In fact, he treated her more like a friend than a Housecarl. Which was odd, to say the least. Her intensive training for this position had ingrained in her mind the fact that her future Thane would most likely be a very large, very mean Nord with a scarred, hardened face and a personality to match. So one could imagine her shock as she looked upon her Thane for the first time and found he was the total opposite of what she had been expecting.

He gestured for her to come sit by the fire, and she was tempted to simply stomp back into the tent with not so much as a backwards glance, but a particularly cold gust of wind convinced her otherwise. She crossed her arms to keep warm and sauntered wearily over to the fire with another shiver running up her spine. This armour could protect her from the claws of a dragon, but not from the biting Skyrim weather. No, not even her Nord blood was enough. Not tonight.

She had to sit next to him on the rock as it was the only one close enough to the fire. But she didn’t mind. She could still look out over the plains and hills below.

The Imperial was lounging comfortably on the rocks, and the Housecarl winced as she sat down cross-legged next to him. How he was not in pain was anyone’s guess.

When she settled down he straightened up a bit.

“You’re getting quite the tongue there, Lydia. Soon you’ll be able to keep up with me.” He playfully jabbed an elbow into her ribs which she ignored. She could see his breath in the air.

“Well, my Thane, when one has the pleasure of travelling with such a revered person, she tends to pick up on some of his habits. Admirable or not.”

He laughed again, louder this time, and she could no longer hold her anger. He had an infectious personality that not even the frigid night could dampen.

“See? Look at you! You make me so proud,” he teased, lightly clapping her on the back. She said nothing.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, both staring into the embers and listening to the almost utter silence of the night. Despite only knowing her Thane for a few months, she felt relaxed around him, which, again, was odd. She had expected to be standing at attention the rest of her life, ready at her Thane’s every beck and call. Not that she was complaining, though. It was nice to unwind sometimes. She never really had that luxury, and she was still learning how to deal with it.

After a little while her Thane broke the silence.

“So, when we get back to Whiterun, I was thinking I’d get Adrianne to patch up my armour. That saber-tooth nearly ripped me in half yesterday.” Lydia tore her eyes from the fire and looked over to him. He was examining a rather large gash through the leather covering his chest area.

“A sound plan, my Thane.”

“Lydia, please, for the _thousandth_ time, it’s Cato. Not ‘my Thane’.” His voice wasn’t irritated or exasperated. It was monotone. He had said this time and time again.

She rolled her eyes and he continued.

“It’s going to be expensive. It’s a pretty big tear. But the damned cat’s hide will help pay for it.”

She laughed internally but quickly stopped as she recalled the horror that the large cat had caused her yesterday. She had thought for sure that the huge paws had ripped right through his light armour and had torn into his skin. There was one terrifying moment as he lay still on the hard ground after being thrown through the air like a child’s toy by the animal. And in her rage and fear the Housecarl had thrown herself back at the cat and finally managed to put a sword through it’s neck.

Her Thane was alright, though. It had only caused a small cut and a bit of bruising. A few health potions had fixed it.

She had convinced herself that her concern for his life was merely the product of her oath to protect him, and her fear of facing the jarl with the news that she had failed in her duties. But she knew there was more than that. Perhaps even more than the fact that they fought so well together, and it would be a shame if she was reassigned a Thane.

He glanced over to her. “Thanks for that, by the way. I’d probably be inside the stomach of that animal right now if you hadn’t been there.”

She blushed slightly at the compliment but waved it away.

“I am sworn to protect you with my life.”

He gave her an exasperated look, but she continued to avoid his scolding. “Why do you insist on wearing that leather armour? It tears too easily,” she asked. “If you wore the heavy stuff you wouldn’t need to get it fixed so often.”

He smiled again and grabbed the long stick he had been using as a fire poker, pushing around the burning wood absentmindedly. “I know. It can be a pain sometimes, and it doesn’t really do much against heavy weapons. Or cats, apparently,” he said as he gestured to the tear near his chest. “But I find that it allows me to move easier. To dodge out of the way, I guess. I figure that avoiding getting hit in the first place is better than being slowed down by iron or steel armour and getting all banged up.”

It made sense to her, she supposed, though she still preferred her own heavy armour. She felt safe in it. And she doubted that his small stature could even support the weight of heavier armour.

“I can repair your armour for you, my Thane.” He gave her another irritated look. “Cato,” she corrected. “I can repair it. I’ll do so as soon as we get back.”

“Lydia,” he said with a sigh. He pushed a large log over and the embers flickered up in one big rush. “You don’t _have_ to do everything for me, you know. You’re going to have a good few days’ rest when we get back.” She was about to protest but he added, “I’m quite capable of surviving on my own.”

She wasn’t really offended by this, though she thought she perhaps should be.

“Well, if you don’t need me, why do you insist on bringing me along?” _More like dragging me along_ , she thought.

His smile softened and he said, “for the company.”

She blushed again, face growing red and hot despite the cold, and reached for the stick in his hands. She started poking at the fire for something to do. The little golden flecks swirled up into the vast inky sky and it was hard to tell what were stars and what was fire.

He realised she was uncomfortable and attempted to change the subject. “Sooo,” he drawled, pretending to examine a scar on the back of his hand. “What brings you out of the warm tent on this lovely evening?”

She couldn’t pass up her chance.

“The company,” she retorted.

His laugh was nothing short of hysterical. It boomed out across the hills, echoing through the grasses and rocks of the Reach, and she couldn’t help it.

She smiled.

“Ah! There it is!” he cried out suddenly, startling her. She looked over to him questioningly. “I never thought I’d get to see it!”

“My Thane - ” she started.

“Lydia, it’s Cato,” he cut her off.

“Cato, I don’t - ”

“You smiled just then. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile.”

She stopped cold and an icy silence filled their little camp. She was shocked at first and didn’t say anything. He watched her intently with a blank expression, but she could see in the flickering firelight that his eyes held great interest.

“My Th- Cato,” she corrected when she finally found her voice. She was looking into his face. “What in the name of Talos is _that_ supposed to mean?”

He had expected her to react in such a way, and was not taken aback by her fractious tone. He gave a small smile.

“I’m simply saying that you don’t smile enough. You take this whole Housecarl business much too seriously. Lighten up a little.”

How dare he- how could he-? She had no words to describe how angry she was right now. She was performing her duty to the very best of her abilities. She had fought for and trained years for the honour of holding this position. She was silently disappointed when she was first introduced to him, but she held her tongue. She had been his pack mule while she followed him across Skyrim on every stupid errand he did, and she was tired and cold and bruised nearly every hour of the day. And he had the nerve – no, the _audacity_ – to tell her to ‘lighten up’?

It took every ounce of her brute strength not to throw her fist in his face.

He laughed again, watching the rage and disbelief flash across her face.

“See? You’re doing it now. It was a joke, Lydia. I didn’t mean it.”

No, it wasn’t a joke. There had been truth behind his words. His laughing was only irritating her now.

When he figured out that her silence meant she was not impressed in the slightest, he admitted that he’d gone too far. She was a new friend, and he was still figuring out how she worked. Apparently she very much disliked jabs at her work ethic.

He sighed and placed a hand on her shoulder. She tensed but didn’t move, still staring into the fire. He had to repair this. The tension in the air was tangible.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“Hm,” she mumbled. 

“Honestly, he added.

“It’s alright, my Thane. I will try to be less formal in the future,” she answered stiffly. She had no right to be cross with her Thane.

“No, it’s not alright, Lydia. I’m sorry. I know you take this job seriously, and that’s fine. But you don’t have to talk to me like a king, for gods’ sakes,” he chuckled.

Her expression softened. He let go of her shoulder and followed her gaze back to the flames.

“It’s weird, you know. I don’t like it. I know I’m Thane and all, but I just can’t get used to it. I’ve never had people under my control before. And you know how clumsy I can be. That would be a disaster! Can you even imagine?”

No, she couldn’t. He would probably end up accidentally sending an entire army over the edge of a cliff.

“I’m not going to order you around. You’re my friend, and I don’t want to do that.”

She froze for a second. Friend? Cato thought of her as a friend? She was taken aback, but something inside her softened.

She’d never really had a friend before.

Lydia let go of a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and he could tell by her posture he had been forgiven.

After a moment of silence he stood up and stretched.

“Well, I think I’m going to bed now. It’s after midnight, and my watch is nearly over. Is that alright?”

She nodded, still staring into the fire, but she could make out his slender form from the corner of her eyes.

“Alright. ’Night, Lydia,” he saluted. He stepped over to the tent, but just before he bent down and crawled inside he paused and looked back to her.

“Hey,” he called softly. She looked up into his grinning face, and his bright brown eyes, so different from the pale blue of the Nords she was accustomed to, caught her breath. “What I said earlier, about your smile. I meant it. You should do it more often. It suits you.” He smirked again and went inside the tent.

The rest of the cold windy night passed with Lydia gazing into the flames pondering what her Thane had said.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she shouldn’t be so serious. And maybe she should lighten up a bit.

She smiled at the thought. He _was_ right. It did suit her.

* * *

* * *

They had walked the whole morning, right from dawn, in comfortable silence. In fact, they’d hardly spoke at all while folding up the tent and putting out the fire. The most they’d done was sneak a few curious glances at each other.

Lydia’s mind was still contemplating over last night’s conversations, and she stared at the ground, her boots crunching the frosty grasses. She didn’t notice when they finally crossed into Whiterun Hold and the rolling hills gave way to flatter plains where the giant mammoth still roamed free. As such she was not paying attention to where she was walking. Some animal bone jutting out from the frozen ground, hidden by the grasses, caught her foot and she fell forward. Her packs were full of useless junk her Thane had burdened her with, so she could not manage to catch her footing. She was dragged to the ground.

Cato heard her fall, and he turned around to see her struggling to stand again. He rushed over, and Lydia suddenly found a tanned hand offered in her face. She took it gratefully and he pulled her up.

They stood facing each other for a moment, hands still together, and a blush found it’s way to her face as she smiled again. Gods, what was _wrong_ with her? Couldn’t she face him without turning into a beet?

He returned the gesture and said, “See? It’s not that hard.”

He let go of her hand and turned around, leaving her there in the grass with his touch still burning her hands.


	2. Leaving Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cato and Lydia get lost in an ancient Dwemer ruin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for kudos guys! I really appreciate it! It motivates me to write more often, and it means so much that people actually read, enjoy, and look forward to more.
> 
> As such, I spent all day writing this for you! It was fun, and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> And you probably shouldn't expect updates every three days. I'm getting really busy with uni again, so chapters will be sporadic.
> 
> Also, there are a couple of swear words in this chapter. Just letting you know.

* * *

* * *

"Shit, Lydia, hold up. I need to sit down."

Cato's strangled words pierced the silence like a blade. The Housecarl turned around, her heart still pounding in her chest, to look back at him. She could barely make him out in the pale light, but she could see he was clutching his right shoulder and bending over in pain. His breathing was heavy and ragged, and his eyes were shut tight, obviously attempting to block out the agony he was in. His left hand was flat against the damp rocky wall of the tunnel, holding his weakened body upright.

She wanted to let him rest. She truly did. But she knew that they needed to get out of here.

"My Thane, we can't. We need to keep going." Her voice was barely above a whisper and it quavered in fear and adrenaline.

Cato sighed, eyes still shut, and after a moment he opened them. They were full of pain, and Lydia felt a twinge of pity.

He shook his head ever so slightly, and looking her in the eyes muttered, "I can't. I'm sorry."

He was too exhausted to say anything more, but Lydia could see he was pleading with his eyes. She stood there, frozen, her legs facing forward into the dark unknown, her upper body twisted around to face her Thane. The tunnel was absolutely silent except for the sound of dripping water, her Thane's ragged breathing, and her own thrumming heart. After a moment's contemplation, she nodded back and carefully tread over to him, stepping over boulders and across small pools of water.

He sighed in relief as she reached him and helped lower him to the ground in a sitting position against the cold stone wall. He winced and hissed as his shoulder moved, and when he was finally sitting, he sighed, closed his eyes again, and leaned his head back against the wall. He didn't even care that he was sitting in a puddle and that the holes worn through his leather boots were letting the cold water in. He just wanted to rest.

His Housecarl was crouched beside him, rummaging through her uncharacteristically light pack. She grumbled in frustration as she felt around for the familiar glass flask of a healing potion, but she couldn't find one. It wasn't helping that the only light in this damned place was the strange glowing mushrooms growing seemingly from the stone. She couldn't even seem to find a stamina potion.

Her hands grasped onto a book, and she took it out of her bag, reading the title of it. She huffed in irritation and was just about to throw it back down the passage they came when she felt a weak hand grab her by the arm.

"No," Cato mumbled, eyes half open. "Keep it."

"My Thane," she protested, shaking his hand off in irritation. "I can't keep holding on to it. We're not going to find out what happened, anyway. Just let me get rid of it."

He shook his head silently, and she felt her fury roar up inside her.

It was this stupid book's fault they were down here in the first place. Some Altmer magician had asked them to kill the giant spider blocking the entrance to this Dwemer ruin. Nchuand-Zel, she thought it was called. Simple enough task. But Cato had been simply enthralled by the ruins. He'd never seen anything like them before. Apparently they didn't have them in Cyrodiil. Lydia didn't care much for them, but she could see the appeal to an outsider. They were massive, and beautiful, and so very _different_ than any other type of structure found in Skyrim. Or anywhere else, really.

So he had been adamant that the two of them explore the ruins a bit more. Just a bit, he promised. Enough to get a real up-close and personal view from the inside. She had never been inside one herself, but she had heard the bedtime stories warning of hideous, pale-skinned demons and enormous strange machines dwelling deep within. So, though she had no desire to find out if the rumours were true, she grudgingly agreed and had followed him inside.

That had been, what? Six days ago now?

Cato coughed painfully, and Lydia was wrenched from her reverie. She tossed the book back inside the bag with an exasperated sigh and continued digging around.

She managed to pull out a cloth wrapped around a stale piece of bread. Having nothing else to go on, she unwrapped it and broke a chunk off, offering it to her Thane. She nudged his forearm to get his attention, and he cracked his eyes open just enough to see it and shake his head dismissively.

"My Thane-" she started, growing impatient. How did he expect to heal when he was refusing her help?

"I'm tired of stale bread, Lydia. It's getting old. I want a nice steak of venison. And some potatoes and carrots. And a giant tankard of mead," he finished with a smile. More of a grimace, really.

She rolled her eyes at him, but in the dim light he couldn't see it. "Stop talking like that. You're making me hungry."

"Then you eat the bread. I don't want it. I'll just wait till we get out of here."

She was getting more irritated as time wore on.

"You're not going anywhere if you don't get better soon." She lowered her gaze to his shoulder.

He opened his eyes halfway and, like her, looked to his bloody and torn arm.

"Yeah. It's pretty bad, isn't it?" he asked weakly.

She didn't want to say anything, but yes. His shoulder was ripped up fairly good. They'd removed the shoulder pads and Lydia had used a dagger to cut off some of the leather armour around his wound so it didn't irritate it as he walked. She wrapped his shoulder with an old shirt, but it was stained with blood and she didn't have a new one. He'd drank all their health potions, and then their stamina potions, and most of the food. All they had left was the bread, but she didn't tell him that. She looked at the slice longingly, and her stomach rumbled again, but she wrapped it back up and tossed it inside her bag.

She ignored his question and pulled out her water flask. Cato had emptied his yesterday. Well, she thought it was yesterday. She hadn't seen the sun in so long.

"Here. At least drink something." He looked from his shoulder up to her, and before he could protest this time, she had lifted the opening to his mouth and tipped it back. He coughed and spluttered, but gulped it down his parched throat.

"Gods, Lydia. Are you trying to kill me?" He coughed as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"If I wanted to kill you I would have left you back there with that Centurion."

An hour or so after they had gone through the doors of Nchuand-Zel, Cato had come across a tattered book. He'd read it, seemingly fascinated by whatever was inside, while Lydia waited around for him to finish. It was a journal, he told her, written by someone named Stromm. Apparently this Stromm guy had been part of an expedition into the ruins, and had lost his excavation team along the way. And of course, Cato had been captivated by Stromm's story, and had begged Lydia to come along with him deeper inside to find this man.

Lydia had not been happy ever since they'd crossed back into the Reach to visit Markarth. The last time they'd been here was only a few months ago, and in that time her Thane had nearly been eaten by a saber-tooth and skewered by the Forsworn. So, she was _not_ excited when he announced to her they were returning, and as such, she had been somewhat irritable the entire journey.

Cato had sensed her displeasure, and that was why he'd tried to convince her to find Stromm instead of simply ordering her to follow him. Which, by the way, he rarely did. He just _really_ wanted to find him and see more of this ruin. He knew how to approach her when she was in her moods, which were few and far between the past while. She had taken his advice to heart and had lightened up a bit, though he never pointed this out. He did not wish to bring up that conversation again.

So, she reluctantly agreed. She knew he wouldn't go deeper if she refused to accompany him, and she knew he wouldn't force her, but she felt she should uphold her duty as Housecarl and follow him wherever he wished to go.

It had gone well at first. They'd killed a few more spiders and some Falmer, which were just as revolting as the stories described. Cato had searched through every chest and barrel looking for evidence of Stromm, and when he came across a small Falmer settlement, he had practically squealed with joy. Lydia had to admit it was interesting. The blind little monsters were smarter than she imagined, having set up houses and animal pens, however crude they were. Cato, being of the curious and scholarly race of Imperials, wanted to know how they'd built their structures and how their culture functioned. His Housecarl couldn't care less. She had been growing impatient and had finally managed to urge an excited, eager Cato from the area deeper into the ruins. Had she known what they would encounter she would have dragged him out of there by his collar.

Cato laughed, but he was cut short and gasped in pain. Lydia was becoming desperate. She needed to heal him soon, or he really wouldn't be leaving this place. Her heart sunk in her chest as soon as that thought crossed her mind. She never really thought about Cato's death before. Except that one time with the saber-tooth, but she had refused to accept that he might be mortally wounded. She had never even been afraid as they faced down dragons. Now, though, she wasn't convinced.

"My Thane, are you alright?" she asked, real fear lacing her tone. He seemed not to have heard her and he tried to steady his breathing as he clutched at his wound.

After another moment in the dark, damp, silent tunnels he opened his eyes to look at her. If she had been frightened before, she was absolutely terrified now. His usually bright brown eyes had gone dull, and they held an acceptance and recognition that she had never seen before. Well, she had, but only…

No. He wasn't doing this to her. He couldn't. Not yet.

Only in men who realise their time has come.

Their own expedition had turned south soon after they left the Falmer settlement behind. Apparently it had only been an outpost, and the two had stumbled upon an enormous city of the creatures. It had been a tough fight, and both had received many wounds, though they had healed them with potions and rest. During the battle they got turned around and no longer knew where they had come in, so after much arguing they took a random passage. A day or so later Cato had started feeling nauseous and weak, and within a few hours he had thrown up the bread and apple he had eaten for supper. He insisted he was fine, so they continued on. But he could barely keep his food down, and he had grown pale. At night she could hear him toss and moan in his sleep, and he'd awake in a cold sweat.

But their trouble really began after they happened upon an old dormant Centurion. Sensing the presence of intruders, it whirred awake, huge amounts of steam hissing from it's hinges. Lydia had defended Cato from smaller machines the past little while, but she had never expected to see one this large. And _furious_. It slammed its warhammer and battle axe into the stone floor, desperately trying to flatten the pair of imposters. The Housecarl knew she couldn't fight it off alone, so she went to get Cato out of there. But the giant machine had made it to him first. In a blur of colours and steam and cries of pain, the Centurion managed to catch Cato's shoulder with it's enormous hammer just before he rolled out of the way.

Lydia had dragged her unconscious Thane out of the chamber and into a dark side passage a moment before the machine broke the rock around the entrance and sealed them inside.

And so they had been wandering down the chamber for days now, frantically seeking a way out. Lydia eventually discovered that Cato had been nicked with a poison blade back at the Falmer city. The small phial of Cure Poison had not been enough. It was already too far into his bloodstream to do any good.

She shook her head furiously. The silence of the passageway intensified, and she felt it thrumming in her ears. "No, my Thane." She paused as her breath hitched in her throat. "I'll get you out of here." She lifted her head up and hectically looked around the tunnel, as if the answer or the way out would suddenly show itself.

"Lydia," he whispered, and his voice was so calm. She refused to listen to him or look into his eyes. She was blinking over and over, trying to keep the tears from spilling over the brim of her eyes. His tanned face had gone ghostly white and beads of sweat rolled down it. She resumed her futile search of her pack.

"There has to be something…" she muttered angrily.

"Lydia, please," he said again, louder this time. But she wouldn't listen. Her heart started racing again and it became so loud she was sure Cato could hear it.

"I'm so tired…" he drawled, and her panic kicked up a notch. He was slipping.

Gods, it was so dark in here. If only she had a little more light…

An idea dawned on her suddenly. "Magic!" she nearly shouted, and she furrowed her brows in concentration as she conjured up a tiny ball of light in her palm. She used it to pull out a flask and read it's label. It was Restore Magicka.

She gulped the whole thing down and her stomach lurched. She should not have taken that much, or that fast, but she was desperate.

She concentrated even harder than before, trying to produce a Healing Hands spell.

Lydia had never learnt magic as a child, always having been brought up with the notion that if you were strong enough, you could kill your enemy before they ever hurt you. There was no need for her to learn it. Cato had limited knowledge on the subject as well, but he insisted on teaching his Housecarl some simple spells in case of an emergency. He'd mostly taught her the healing spell, the light spell, a ward spell, a fireball spell, and a few other simple ones. She'd never really used any of them outside of practice until now. It was very difficult for her to produce anything. Magic had to be taught young, or people 'hardened' over the years and it became tougher to learn.

She could feel the magic inside her twist and turn as it thirsted to bend to her will. It _wanted_ to be used. She just had to let it be.

The pressure was building up and right as she thought her head would explode with the effort, her magic broke free of it's restraints and swirled around in her hands, lighting up the tunnels that had remained in the dark for centuries with a sharp orange glow.

She laughed as the pressure receded, and immediately she placed her hands directly on Cato's wounded shoulder. He cried out in pain, but as the spell went on and Lydia felt her magicka drain, he relaxed and sighed contentedly. She placed a hand on the side of his face gently, trying to spread the spell into his body to get at the poison.

When the spell ended and the passageway was plunged back into darkness, she dropped her arms and was left there kneeling by his side panting with the effort. She sat down and leaned against the wall beside him, and mirroring him, she closed her eyes and rested her head back.

Both adventurers rested there in silence, listening to the water drip from the ceiling into the puddles all around them. After some time Cato spoke softly.

"Gods, that felt good."

Lydia, having rested long enough, opened her eyes and glared at him.

"You stupid ass," she growled as she punched him in the arm. His left arm, not the wounded one, and rather hard.

"Ow!" he half-wined, half-laughed. His voice echoed down the halls. "What was that for?"

"For dragging me down here. For not listening to me. For almost giving up on me. You would have left me here."

"It's not like I wanted to, you know," he countered as he rolled his shoulder, trying to smooth out the ache of where she hit him. He dared not lift his wounded arm for fear that the pain would return.

"Whatever. Just don't even think about it again."

"Fine. I'll try not to get poisoned and bashed with a fucking giant hammer again."

Lydia gritted her teeth. She could not believe she was arguing with her Thane right now.

"Fine," she harrumphed, turning away from him.

"Fine."

With a sudden burst of anger she leaned over and picked up her pack, and he stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. She rummaged around in it again before pulling out Stromms' journal and immediately throwing it down the tunnel. It disappeared from view and landed with a thud and a splash into a relatively deep puddle.

He looked over to her incredulously and she gave him a wickedly satisfied smile.

"There. Should have done that six days ago."

For the first time since entering the ruins, complete and utter silence fell. Lydia's heart had slowed, and Cato's breathing had evened. Even the dripping water seemed to have stopped. The entire place was holding it's breath.

He got over his disbelief a few moments later and laughed aloud. It was his real laugh, not the strangled one he had used the past few days. She looked right into his eyes and, though they were not bright like normal, they no longer held that terrifying finality.

All her anger at him disappeared and she found herself smiling and blinking back tears. She placed her hand on the back of his neck and leaned forward until her forehead was touching his in a sign of camaraderie.

She had never been this close to his face before. He was sweaty and grimy and needed a shave, but she smiled and he smiled back.

"Seriously, though. Don't ever think of leaving me again, or I'll hurt more than just your arm."

"I won't," he whispered.

"Good."

And she believed him.


	3. Imperial Bastard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello again! I was playing Skyrim the other day and I realised that, for a supposedly racist province, it doesn't do a very good job at making you feel like you're discriminated against if you play as anything other than a Nord. For example, guards won't let Kahjiit into the cities, but they'll let you in if you're one. And I'd think Imperials and elves, especially High Elves, would most definitely not be allowed into places like Windhelm. So, naturally, it inspired me to write this!
> 
> Thanks for the reviews and kudos! Like I said before, it really means a lot. 
> 
> Enjoy, and if you are so inclined as to post a review about what you think, I'd be very much obliged!

"I can't believe we let provincials like you wander Skyrim."

Cato sighed. He'd heard this before.

"Well, you do." He continued marching through the streets, eyes on the dirty, snowy ground. Lydia was right behind him. A little too close, maybe, but she was nervous. They shouldn't have come here.

"What was that? You lookin' for a fight, Imperial?" The big potbellied Nord called out to them in a thick accent above the crowded market square. Almost at once a hush descended upon the normally buzzing array of shops and stalls. Eyes wandered curiously over to the Nord and the two travelers who had by now stopped in their tracks to look back at him. The people around them had silently moved out of the way creating a rough circle around the three individuals. The snow fell lightly from the grey winter sky, and it seemed almost peaceful if one didn't consider the fact that a very irate, very scary-looking giant of a man had threatened two strangers in the congested plaza.

A tense moment passed before the Nord man, who had blue eyes, blonde hair, and a tangled braided beard to match, marched over to the pair and stood towering over them. His fists were clenched by his side.

"I _said_ are ya lookin' for a fight?"

Lydia's heart dropped in her chest. She knew this would happen at some point. She'd been lucky, she guessed, that it hadn't happened before.

Her Thane had got himself into fist fights in the past. It wasn't a rare occurrence, really, though she never enjoyed watching him get beat by the others. He normally won, seeing as most who'd challenged him had been drunk or desperately trying to prove their prowess, and the small man had seemed the perfect opponent.

But this time it was different. This man was _huge_. He was so close she could see the stains on his worn yellowed doublet and smell the ale on his rancid breath. Either he was a drunk with nothing to lose or an off-duty soldier with a grudge.

Both options were not desirable, and she really wanted to get out of there.

Apparently Cato did too. After sizing up the man and deciding he wasn't worth it he answered in as amicable a voice he could.

"Ah, no. Not really. Sorry." He jerked his head at his Housecarl, gesturing to leave. They turned around before the man reached out and placed firm, massive callused hand on Cato's leathered shoulder.

"Yeah, I think you are."

Cato couldn't have moved if he wanted to. The Nord had him held firmly in place. Clenching his jaw, the Imperial brushed off the man's hand and turned around. Lydia tensed, heart racing.

"Look, I don't want any trouble," he said quietly, taking step back. "We're just passing through."

"Just passin' through, are ya? Ya shouldn't 'ave come here in the first place." The Nord boomed out and took a step closer.

Lydia was stood right behind her Thane and to the side. She was so close that her body was pressed up against him. Glaring at the man, she clenched her own fists in an attempt not to throw them into his ugly face.

Cato held up his hands apologetically. "We have some business here and then we'll be on our way."

The man took another step towards them, boots crunching in the snow, and they backed up a bit. "Ha! Business? Would that business be spyin' for the Empire? I bet there's more of you rats scurryin' around here."

Cato really didn't want to get into an argument with this guy, but he was exhausted from travelling and tired of the jabs and looks he'd received recently.

In their entire year of travelling together, him and Lydia hadn't entered the city of Windhelm once. It was Ulfric's kingdom, the Stormcloak stronghold, and an extremely racist place.

Cato was by now used to the discrimination he received from people on a near daily basis. Being an Imperial in a land of Nords fighting against your race had not been easy, but he'd learned to just ignore the slurs and the stares.

Lydia, however, found it much harder to ignore. She could not believe how mean some people could be. She had always thought her race to be a friendly one. Sure, she'd seen some real blockheads in her time, but they were few and far between. Most Nords were honest, kind, hardworking folk who'd welcome travellers with open arms and full mugs of ale. But travelling with Cato had shown her another side of her people she'd have been happy never knowing about.

They had stared at him, glared at him, laughed at him, pointed at him, spit on the ground as he walked by, and charged him more for food and rent and supplies. He had been the butt of everyone's jokes, the underpayed, overworked errandboy, and not worthy of an ounce of respect, despite being the fabled Dragonborn. Not everyone had been like this, though, especially those that sided with the Empire, but more often than not he had to grin and bear it.

Lydia herself was not innocent, however. She had treated him poorly when they first met. He was, to her, someone not to be trusted. Jarl Balgruuf had seemed insane for giving the enemy the honourable title of Thane. Her Jarl had not taken a side in the Civil War, but she knew he was in favour of the Empire. Balgruuf's brother and Housecarl, her father Hrongar, on the other hand, hated the Empire with a passion. Lydia, being young and somewhat more open-minded than her stern father, had looked at both sides of the issue, and while she didn't exactly hate Imperials themselves, she had decided that Skyrim belonged to the Nords and as such should be rid of their influence. Her prejudice got the better of her, though, and she had been extremely disappointed in being assigned Housecarl to this short underfed man. He hardly seemed like he could lift a sword.

But as time wore on, she saw he was quite capable of handling himself in battle. She had never thought about it before, as she'd never met many Imperials, but as they travelled and came across members of the Legion, she began to notice that all of them, not just Cato, had slender builds. They were somewhat shorter than Nords as well. Most warriors she had met had been large, burly bearded Nords with thick armour and even thicker skulls. Farkas, Cato's Companion friend, was a prime example. Those Imperials, though, were crafty and smart. No wonder they had conquered most of the continent.

She was beginning to think that maybe the Imperials weren't really small after all. Her own race towered over all the others. Maybe they were just exceptionally large.

But the minds of the Nords had been poisoned with the assumption that all Imperials, and in extension all other races, were unworthy and therefore must be removed from their homeland.

And so this was why they hadn't visited Windhelm before now. The apex of the anti-Imperial campaign resided here, and both Lydia and Cato knew going inside would only amount to unwanted trouble.

But they were on a mission given by the East Empire Company to deal with some pirates at the docks of the city. It promised good coin, so they had trudged all the way from Solitude to here. It had been a long, tiresome, absolutely freezing journey, and Cato was perhaps happier than he should have been when Lydia pointed out the ancient stone walls in the distance.

Getting in to the city had proved to be easier than both had thought. A few well-placed words with the gate guard and a conversation nearing a threat got them unbridled access to the entirety of Windhelm. But once inside, they found the citizens were harder to persuade.

Cato sighed again.

"If I was an Imperial spy do you think I'd be travelling with a Nord?"

Lydia's stomach flipped as the man glanced over to her, rage filling his icy eyes.

"She could be part of the Legion too. I've seen some Nords in their ranks. Traitorous bastards," he grumbled, and she got the feeling this man was harbouring hatred for someone he knew who'd left to join them.

People were openly staring at them now. Some had even come out of their shops to watch the spectacle unfold.

When the pair didn't answer, the man went on.

"Skyrim belongs to the Nords, Imperial. This is _our_ home," he pointed a fat finger at his own chest. Cato sighed. He really didn't want to hear this again. He was tired of all the lectures. The Nord started pacing in front of him, hands clenched, shoulders rigid.

"All we want is to worship Talos in peace. We helped you win the Great War. We were allies once. Friends even! We sacrificed our lives for _your_ goddamned war. We helped _you_ push the elves out of the Empire, and _we_ were the ones you came runnin' to." He stopped pacing and turned to face them. His deep voice was raising and he pointed an accusing finger at the Imperial. The market was deathly silent as all eyes were now on the three in the centre.

"And what thanks do we get? None! We're not even allowed to worship our own God! You Imperial bootlickers ran from the elves with your tail between your legs! Ya should 'ave stayed and fought for your home! A true warrior wouldn't 'ave cowered behind some treaty!" He was shouting now, and a few of the more active city guards had made their way over to see what the commotion was about.

Whispers and murmurs ran through the crowd, and a few people yelled out "here, here!" or "Imperial bastard!", though Lydia managed to catch some of their quieter words. Most were in agreement with the Nord.

Cato watched the man inexpressively. This only angered him more.

He growled and walked right up to Cato, their noses nearly touching. The Nord was sweaty and his face was red from anger. He poked Cato in the chest rather hard.

"You're weak, Imperial."

Hot rage coursed through Lydia's body and she made to push the man away, but Cato touched her forearm lightly, stopping her without eye contact.

He thought he could reason with this man. He obviously had an issue with his race, and judging by the fact the Nord hadn't already thrown a punch, he thought he could work his way out of this one diplomatically.

He straightened up, but even so he only reached the Nord's thick beard.

"Imperials aren't your enemy, friend. The Thalmor are."

"Don't call me friend, you bastard," the Nord spit at him, eyes flashing with fury.

Cato winced but chose to ignore the insult.

"I'm not defending the Empire or my people. I know what they did was wrong." The Nord's eyes were boring into his, and he could feel the waves of hatred roll off him. "They didn't want to outlaw Talos's worship. It was the elves."

The Nord stepped back and let out a laugh, eyes roaming the people gathered in the square.

"Ha! See? The coward blames it all on the elves!" His fiery eyes shot back to Cato and he pointed at him again. "Take some responsibility, you gutless son of a bitch!"

Lydia stiffened beside Cato. This was getting way out of hand.

"The Empire is not the ones executing Talos worshipers. The Thalmor are."

"Ah, 'ere he goes again with the damned elves!" He threw his hands in the air and stepped back again. "Yes, man, we _know_ they're the ones who began the war _you_ should have finished. But ya came crying to the Nords when ya got scared your words wouldn't save you! If it wasn't for us your mom and dad wouldn't have had the pleasure to fuck each other senseless and ya wouldn't even be here now. Real shame, that. Maybe we _should_ 'ave let the City fall. Might save us from wasting our goods on your scrawny ass!"

Lydia's anger was boiling up inside her now. This braggart was getting too worked up and had started throwing out personal insults. He was pacing around the circle, eyebrows furrowed and hands wrung together.

" 'The Empire's not executing Talos worshipers' ", the Nord quoted in a sadistic voice. "Ha! That's a good one! And who serves the Thalmor willingly?"

Cato swallowed but remained firm. "Fear of punishment and genocide isn't 'willingly' ".

"Why, then, in the name of Talos, did ya bastards start a war with them?" he roared.

"They didn't start it."

"Declaring war on the elves is considered _not_ starting a war? _That's_ a new one. I'll 'ave to remember it."

"They weren't going to let them take the province without a fight. They tried-" He was cut off by a harsh laugh.

"Oh, don't even start that, Imperial! I said this before! You should 'ave stayed and fought for your home if it meant anything to you!"

"The Empire had to stop. They wanted to prevent another war."

"Oh, yeah, they sure did a good job not startin' any more wars!" Some of the people in the crowd laughed and murmurs of agreement rolled through. The Nord laughed along with them.

Cato sensed the argument was nearing it's close. He was right.

"I'm wastin' my time here on your worthless hide. Your kind doesn't belong here. If ya have even an ounce of courage in ya then fight me!"

Lydia's attention snapped to. She was as still as a statue.

Cato shook his head and raised his hands again, palms facing outward. "I told you, I'm not looking for trouble."

"Coward!" The Nord screeched. "You were looking for it the second ya stepped through those gates!" He started for them slowly but they kept their distance.

"Look, I don't want to fight you. Let's just go our separate ways and-"

"I'm not one of your kind! When something matters to me I stay and see it through!"

"This _doesn't_ matter to me. I don't care that you hate the Legion or the Empire or whatever. I wasn't in the War and I didn't sign the treaty."

"No, Provincial, it's not them I hate. I just _really_ don't like you." His voice was dangerously low and he was getting closer to them. "So come on. Fight me. I'll show ya how a true son of Skyrim fights."

The man had nearly cornered them up against a stone wall.

Lydia tugged at Cato's sleeve, trying to tell him to leave. He got the hint.

"I'm sorry. I'm not going to fight you."

The Nord gave a feral growl and in two steps was close enough to give the Imperial a hard push back with both of his massive hands. Cato hadn't been expecting it and was winded as he stumbled and his back crashed against the wall.

Lydia couldn't help it. She saw red. One second she was beside her Thane, and the next she had thrown all her strength behind a massive push back at the Nord. She guessed he hadn't been expecting it either as he stumbled a few steps back and surprise lit up his grimy face.

He smiled though, crooked yellow teeth complementing his stained shirt.

"Ha! Now _here's_ a true Nord!" He pointed at the enraged woman. Looking back to Cato he snarled, "Come on, Imperial. Are ya goin' to let your girlfriend do all your fightin'?"

Cato glared at him and then turned his gaze to Lydia. One look told her she shouldn't have pushed the Nord back. It had only fueled his fire.

She turned around and went back to Cato, head low but heart pounding, and together both of them made to leave.

The Nord wasn't going to let them get away that easily. With an "Oh, no you don't," he grabbed the Imperial's arm and swung him around off his feet. He tossed him back into the middle of the circle and he landed on his back.

It all happened so quickly and both travelers were frozen in place for a moment.

The Nord walked up to Cato, who was looking up at him with mixed shock and concern in his eyes from his position on the ground. He kicked some snow with his boot and it landed on the body of the fallen man.

"Come on, milk-drinker. Fight!"

A deathly quiet settled upon the market square as everyone watching waited to see if he really would.

If this man really wanted a fight, he had no choice but to give it to him. He wasn't going to let him leave without one anyways.

So Cato stood up and threw the first punch.

The crowd cheered as the giant Nord and the small Imperial took out their anger on each other.

Cato was much more agile than the hulk of a man, and he managed to easily dodge most of his massive slow swings. He was able to get more hits in, but they just didn't have the force behind them that the Nord had. It seemed the two were evenly matched.

"Come on, faithless coward!" The Nord cried out between swings. He had been throwing around slurs and personal insults at Cato, egging him on, trying to enrage him even more. It didn't really work, and the Nord only redoubled his efforts.

Lydia hadn't moved from where the Nord had thrown Cato to the ground, and she was watching in awe and utter horror. She should step in and protect her Thane, but she knew this wasn't a deadly fight and that, by honour and tradition, they needed to finish it themselves.

That didn't make it any easier, though, as she watched Cato take a particularly hard swing to the side of the head. The force made him fall to one knee. He shook his head painfully and tried to get rid of the stars that swam in his vision.

"Cato!" she managed to yell out in a strangled voice, and the Nord heard it above the cheering.

"Cato, is it?" he growled with a nasty smile on his face. His voice lowered so only the two of them could hear it and he bent down, face to face with the Imperial who was bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow. "Is that what she cries out to you at night? She could do so much better than you."

The Nord took advantage of his momentary daze and grabbed him by the shoulders, lifting him up, obviously about to throw him to the ground and end the fight. He was taken by surprise, though, when the Imperial stuck a foot behind his own and pushed back. The Nord couldn't keep his balance and toppled backwards, dragging Cato with him.

He landed with a thud flat on his back in the snow, clutching the smaller man to his chest. The cheering abruptly stopped as they realised that the Imperial had won.

The Nord's eyes widened in shock and he threw Cato off of him forcefully. He scrambled to his feet quickly and watched the Nord slowly get up on his.

The two stared at each other a moment, the snow falling between them, and Cato had to hold back a laugh as he watched the Nord's face get redder and redder with rage.

Lydia could only guess the reason the man didn't attack again or pull out a dagger was his staunch Nordic belief in honour. For once she was glad of her race's stubborn ways.

Still dazed, Cato felt he was on autopilot as the Nord vanished into the dissipating crowd and as Lydia guided him out of there, through the snowy streets, and back into their rented room at Candlehearth Hall.

He shook out of it when Lydia brought him a bowl of soup Elda the innkeeper had made. He sat on the bed and practically inhaled it. He didn't realise how hungry he was.

When he was done he looked up at his Housecarl. She was watching him with concern from the chair across the room.

"How bad is it?" he asked, and she came over to sit beside him cross-legged on the bed. She had with her a bowl of warm water and an old rag. He vaguely wondered where she had got it but found he didn't care. He closed his eyes as she dabbed the warm cloth across the cut above his brow.

"Not too bad. This cut is the worst, though you'll have a nice bruised eye for a while."

He let her clean his face in silence. He knew she was comforting him because he'd received worse injuries in the past and she'd merely clapped his back and told him to move on.

The warmth from the cloth felt good against his aching skin. She washed out his cut and gently dabbed at the corner of his eye where a nasty bruise was forming. She used her hand to push back his short hair and clean at another, smaller cut on his forehead. Her hands were not smooth, but rough. The hands of a warrior. He didn't care. They were warm and felt nice. Her hands and the cloth and the warm meal in his stomach as well as the adrenaline leaving his body almost put him to sleep. But he needed to ask her something first.

"Do you believe what the Nord said?" He wasn't convinced he was completely out of his daze when he asked that. And he didn't know if he was talking about Imperials or what the man said about Lydia.

He opened his eyes as he felt her remove the cloth and heard it drop into the water bowl.

Her face was blank but he could see guilt and anger there.

"I did once. Not anymore." She couldn't look him in the eye.

He smiled at her. He knew what she thought of him when they first met.

"That's all I care about."

She wanted to say what the Nord said wasn't true. That he shouldn't listen to the lies and the racial slurs. That the Empire did what they had to do, and he shouldn't be blamed for what happened before he was even born. That he was stronger and braver than any Nord she'd ever met. That she cared about him so much.

That last thought stunned her, and she realised suddenly that she really _did_ care for him. He wasn't just someone to protect and follow on orders anymore. No. She would protect and follow him because he was her friend and she cared about him.

But she was never good with words, and neither was he, so she looked at him and smiled back and put her arms around him into an embrace that said all what she wanted to say and even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I took some artistic licence here and decided that Hrongar, who is Jarl Balgruuf's brother and Housecarl, is also Lydia's father. So that would make Balgruuf her uncle. I decided it worked because why else would she be allowed to train for and accept the second highest position in the military (after Housecarl to the Jarl)? Her uncle would give her a foot in the door. And unlike today and in our own world, being related to someone of high authority and power would not grant you any titles or admiration or fame. Other than, perhaps, chances at opportunities.
> 
> Also in the game Hrongar is very anti-Stormcloak. I made him anti-Legion here because it just works better with the story. 
> 
> ALSO I just realised that you might not know what the Nord was talking about. He's talking about the Great War (which is really interesting btw) and how the Nords helped push the Aldmeri Dominion (Thalmor) from Cyrodiil, maybe 30ish years before the Dragonborn was taken to Helgen. The Imperials managed to win, but just barely, and the White Gold Concordat was signed which ceded Hammerfell as an Aldmeri province rather than part of the Empire, and which also banned the worship of Talos throughout all provinces under the Empire's control, including Skyrim. This is what starts the civil war in the game.
> 
> I'm not a nerd, I swear.


	4. Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey readers! First off I would like to say sorry for such a long wait! I am in the midst of finals at school, and I am having a difficult time writing my stories what with so many thoughts in my head and so little time to put them on paper.
> 
> Secondly I'd like to say thanks for all the Kudos! It means so much to me that you actually like my writing and want to see more. It keeps me writing and motivates me. Never forget that!
> 
> Third, I'd like to apologise for the less than stellar quality of this chapter. As I said above, I am very busy and scatterbrained at the moment. Later chapters will be better, I promise!
> 
> So nothing much happens here, really. Just some dialogue/banter and a dragon fight, hence the chapter title. But I felt I wasn't really exploring Lydia's and Cato's relationship enough, and this thing was produced. There's no real roundness like my previous chapters, and it sort of just went this way. 
> 
> And did you notice how long it is? 7000 words! Woohoo! That is so long. Honestly. Twice as long as my other chapters. Hopefully the length will make up for the quality.
> 
> There's some dragon language in this chapter. I find it annoying how authors don't put translations in until the very end. Because I'm nice, and I know you are all probably too lazy (like me) to keep scrolling to the bottom to understand what's going on, I just put it in brackets right in the text. You're welcome.
> 
> Dragon language is a bitch to translate.
> 
> And on a side note, I just watched the Hunger Games for the first time the other night, and one of the character's names was Cato. I swear, I did not steal it from the book/movie! Honestly!
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy this chapter. I probably won't get another one out before Christmas, so I'll say this now: Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Hope you have a great holiday if you celebrate it! If not, whatever. That's cool too, I guess. 
> 
> Jk.
> 
> Long A/N is long. Sorry. I can't write short ones to save my life.

* * *

 

Lydia _hated_ dragons.

No, really, she _absolutely despised_ them.

They were monstrously terrifying creatures whose only purpose, it seemed, was to destroy the world of mortals. They weren't good for anything. Well, perhaps only for their bones and scales. They could fetch a good price. But even so her Thane made her drag them around until they found a merchant willing to buy them. They were _so_ heavy.

She'd only ever seen a few in her lifetime, despite being the renowned sidekick to the Dragonborn. She could count the number of times she'd been close enough to make out their features on one hand, and the number of times they'd actually killed one was even fewer.

Three. That was it.

The very first time had been about seven months ago. She'd been travelling with her Thane for nearly five months without so much as a glimpse of one. Indeed, she'd began to question if he really _was_ the fabled dragon slayer, or simply a brigand clever enough to fool the Jarl of Whiterun. But the dragon rose over the steams of the Eastmarch springs, and fire met with steel, and as she watched the soul leave the body of the dragon and wind its way towards the bruised and breathless man, she knew then that she truly _was_ walking with a living legend.

The second time was three months ago. It was nearing the end of the long summer days, and the first warning the little village of Falkreath got was a monstrous roar in the night. Lydia and Cato had raced from their meal in the inn, half covered in armour, to yell to the town guards to douse the rooftops in water before it arrived. The crested head of the old blood dragon spout its flames and shrieked in rage at the dragon-souled man before eventually hurtling into the roof of a barn in a spectacular show of splintered wood and fire and embers and screams. It was lucky the two of them were there, for Falkreath may have met the same fate as Helgen.

The last dragon they killed had sprung upon them unawares a mere month ago. They were on their way to Windhelm from Solitude on that East Empire job, and they happened upon its lair by accident. Cato could tell something was wrong, though, even before the smell of blood and ash reached them. The massive frost dragon had seen them coming and had taken to the mountains, watching them with keen eyes as they made their way unknowingly closer. And the shadow passed overhead as a blast of ice nearly hit the pair of travellers. But when it was over, and the dragon lay dead in the snow at Cato's feet, Lydia knew it's soul would never again fly through the heavens or watch the long years as they passed, but would instead join its brethren and see the world through the eyes of an Imperial man simply trying to make it out alive.

Yes, Lydia hated them. Or, rather, fighting them, for they always drained the energy and strength of them both. It was not easy to kill a dragon - they were massive and immensely powerful and, though she was loathe to admit it, very smart. Dragons had the advantage of flight and fire, too, and Lydia and Cato never walked away from a battle without a few burns and wounds and stories to tell.

And though her friend would always give an exultant whoop at the end, and even when they shared a fierce grin fueled by the flames of dragon-fire and peril, she could tell there was something else. She wasn't really sure, but it was there.

It was seen in the way he staggered and grimaced in pain as the soul of the monster bound itself unto his own. It was how, for a moment, it seemed his bright brown eyes would flash a striking yellow, and a fire all their own would burn within. It was his contemplating silence that night, and how he sat, unmoving and unyielding, staring into the orange flames at camp, as though finding there stories and knowledge unseen to all.

So even though she hated the dragons for what they were and how they killed, the damage they did to her Thane was worse than all of that together.

And so this dragon would be their fourth.

The two friends had been walking through the old and immensely tall pines and beeches and oaks of the Rift's sprawling forests for four days before the familiar roar of a dragon echoed through the trees. They had stopped in their tracks and Cato looked back to her, a knowing gleam in his eye, before they set their packs down, drew their weapons together, and stepped out into a small clearing, eyes to the sky. The dragon finally showed after some tense, silent moments, and the dark orange beast gave its best.

OoOoOoOoO

"Left! Left! Lydia! Go left!" Cato cried out, frantically waving his arm at her. She saw him and nodded, breathing deeply and gripping her sword before sprinting to the dragon's side. The air smelled of blood and burning wood and that foul reek that only a dragon could claim as its own. She soared over blackened logs and across the scorched grasses, eyes never leaving the massive scaly hide of the enraged dragon. It was thrashing about, and in its rage was splintering the trunks of trees that had stood here for untold years like twigs with its gigantic thick tail and oversized claws.

Cato had managed to slice through the thin membrane of its right wing as it landed for a terrestrial attack, rendering it unable to fly. But just because it couldn't didn't mean it hadn't tried. The Housecarl had nearly been blown off her feet by the gusts the beast made with its ruined wings in a desperate attempt to get off the ground. The dust and ash it kicked up nearly blinded her, and she had to stop a moment and rub her watery eyes as she coughed. The heat coming from the beast was nearly unbearable. It parched her throat, and she could see the invisible waves of it emanating from the golden scales. She blinked and then was on her way again, ducking to avoid the swings of its tail and the flying shards of wood.

Lydia and her Thane had a rough strategy when it came to defeating dragons. They would shoot arrows at it into the sky, taking cover behind rocks and hills, before it was enraged enough to come in for a ground attack. Then the two would spring up from their cover and attempt to sever the ties between it and the sky. They'd slash at the wings until it could no longer lift its massive body from the ground. Remove its flight and the battle was nearly won. A downed dragon is a dead dragon.

But dragons do not take kindly to the loss of flight. If one thinks they are terrifying in the sky, they have not seen one on the ground, cornered, with no way out but through.

So these were perhaps the most dangerous moments in dealing with a dragon. The orange beast was blind with pure burning rage and it was thrashing its weakening body around the scorched clearing it had made. Right now it wanted nothing more than to end the shouting match and stamp the Imperial man flat into the dusty ground, and if Lydia didn't hurry up, it just might.

Cato was weakening as well. He was dodging the blows of the animal's clawed fists into the dirt and its massive snapping jaws, all while skirting the absolutely sweltering heat of dragon fire thrust forth from the foul mouth of the utterly livid beast. He was doing alright, but she could see, across the clearing between the bleeding legs of the dragon, that he was getting tired. The fire was missing him more narrowly and the jabs of his ebony sword were not as deep. She needed to hurry.

And so with a harsh cry and barely a moments thought she tore towards the dragon and thrust her Skyforge greatsword through the thick hide and into the flank of the beast, right to the hilt. The scales cracked as she did so, and the golden dragon threw its massive head back and roared so loud and so furiously she was certain everyone in the Rift could hear it.

Lydia let go of her sword, leaving it buried deep inside the dragon, and leaped back. Heart pounding, she took off and sprinted into the trees at the edge of the clearing just before the dragon, lashing and coiling in its white-hot agony, turned and blew a blistering stream of fire where she had been standing only seconds before. She peered from behind a blackened pine and watched, as she always did, in awe as Cato killed the dragon at last.

Lydia had been the distraction he'd needed, and as the dragon was preoccupied by the sharp bite of the greatsword, he'd taken what little time he had to steel his will, fill his lungs, and leap onto the unsuspecting head of the brute. His sweating hands grasped onto the sharp ivory horns protruding from the skull of the animal, and it took everything he had to stabilise himself against the beast's thrashing. It roared and shook its head roughly, and Lydia gasped as Cato was nearly thrown off.

He still had a tight hold on one horn, but he was dangling from the side of the dragon's head, weapon arm with his dark sword swinging about. The dragon tilted its head to the side, fiery yellow eyes burning with hatred, its mouth open. The world slowed and Lydia's blood ran cold as she realised the dragon would have her Thane in its massive and immensely sharp jaws any second now.

But Cato was quicker than the wounded lumbering giant. He used the open maw as a step to leap onto the head again, and in a fraction of a second, before the beast even knew what was happening, he had stood up, positioned the black sword, and, with all the remaining might of his arm, thrust it into the skull of the dragon.

The dragon felt its death-pang and screamed, heaving its bulk up onto its hind legs, thrusting its head to the heavens. Cato could no longer hold on and was thrown to the ground, landing on his side painfully, sword in hand. In a last desperate attempt at escape, the dragon flapped its torn and bloody wings, kicking up even more dust and ash and little swirling embers into the sweltering sky. It was a terrifying but beautiful sight, Lydia thought. But it didn't last long, and with one final earth-shattering roar the dragon stumbled and crashed to the ground, sending Cato darting out of the way to avoid its crushing mass.

It was over.

An eerie silence filled the clearing, and the Dragonborn stood up slowly as the dust settled. Smoke hissed from the blackened logs and burnt grasses, and the air was cleared except for those airborne cinders and flakes of ash, now falling softly like snow onto the dragon and the slayer.

Lydia waited for the flesh to melt and the soul to swirl, but it never came. The dragon was still alive.

She was not close enough to the Dov to see them look into each others eyes, but they did. Tired, triumphant bright brown ones gazed down into those tired, defeated striking yellow ones. Neither moved, and they simply looked at each other.

Eventually the Housecarl stepped gingerly from behind the scorched pine, and she cautiously made her way over to them, stepping over slivers of wood and pockets of hissing slag. She stopped, though, when Cato stepped closer to the beast and bent down on one knee. He placed a hand on the golden snout and listened to the dragon as it spoke.

"Dovahkiin los dii dovahkriid, ruz," (Dovahkiin is my dragonslayer, then) the beast guttered in a deep voice. Lydia froze. She'd never heard a dragon speak before. Not unless it was Shouting fire or ice at her. "Hin mul, Dovahkiin. Hin krif voth ahkrin. Zu'u sahlo. Fahofan Dovah." (You are strong, Dovahkiin. You fight with courage. I am weak. Forgive me.)

Cato shook his head, eyes closed. "Nid, Dovah. Ni los dii Paak." (No, Dovah. It is my shame.) His voice was full of sorrow. Lydia blinked in confusion. Her Thane could speak dragon?

His eyes opened again. "Hin Tivaak?" (Your name?)

The dragon grumbled lightly, and it seemed to Lydia it was a friendly sound. "Nust Tivaak Yolyuvonmaar. Nii los ni vahzah, nii koraav." (They name me Yolyuvonmaar. It is not true, it seems.) The dragon grumbled again, the sound rumbling deep within the dying beast.

The Imperial smiled and shook his head again. "Nid, Yolyuvonmaar. Hin mul. Fahofan Dovahkiin." (No, Yolyuvonmaar. You are strong. Forgive me.)

The dragon took a deep breath and sighed. "Zu'u bo nol daar Gol, zeymah. Zu'u fen aav Dovahkiin nu." (I fly from this earth, brother. I will join you now.) Cato's smile fell. "Tiiraaz mu nis lahney drem." (Sad we cannot live in peace.)

Cato nodded once and he smiled again, sadly. "Osossul. Aus nid lingrah, Yolyuvonmaar." (Someday. Suffer no longer, Yolyuvonmaar.)

With a final shudder the dragon released its last breath. The scales dissolved and the flesh melted, and Cato stood up again. The soul of the golden dragon filled the desolate clearing with a glow the same colour as fire, but somehow softer and warmer. It twisted around Cato's body, and he winced in pain as it entered him. He fell to his knees and pressed his palms to his eyes, blocking out the obvious pain he was in.

When it was over, and the Dragonborn was kneeling in front of a skeleton, hands lowered now, panting, Lydia shook herself from her daze and slowly continued over to him, boots crunching the coals and ashes of the dragons wrath.

She stopped when she was within arms reach, hesitating, not sure what to do. His eyes were closed.

"Cato?" she asked tentatively, deciding to see if he'd respond verbally. Her quiet voice seemed unfit for this place that had seen such ruin and fire.

He didn't answer, and it seemed as though he hadn't even heard her.

"Grik Paak." He shook his head, eyes still closed. "Such a shame."

"Cato, are you alright?" she asked worriedly. She didn't know what he was saying, and she wanted to get them out of here. They needed rest and something to eat.

He opened his eyes and turned his head up to look at her. His eyes were full of sorrow, and he was covered in grime and sweat and dragon blood.

"I'm fine."

Lydia held out her hand to him, and he took it. His own hand was burning hot, and she let go as he stood up.

There was no triumphant laughter or devious grin like all their battles before. The scorched clearing was silent as the Dragonborn looked down onto the bones of the defeated dragon. The only sounds to be heard was the hissing and crackling of charred trees.

"We should go." Lydia felt useless standing there beside him, doing nothing. She turned around to find their packs and extra weapons hidden between the trees.

She returned, having found them safely and in good condition, to her Thane still standing there.

"Why do we fight dragons, Lydia?" He asked, eyes fixated on the bones.

She blinked in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Why do we fight them?" he repeated.

Why was he asking her this? "Because they attack us," she answered pointedly, not sure what he was on about.

"I guess." It was nearly a whisper, and she wasn't even sure he'd said it. He still didn't move.

"Cato, we should go," she said again, more forcefully this time, and she looked up into the sky. It was darkening, and in a few hours night would be upon them, shining the cold stars of winter upon the world.

"This dragon was smart and he was young," he answered. "He didn't want to fight."

Lydia's face screwed in confusion. "Well it did, Cato. It tried to kill us."

"Yolyuvonmaar." He said the word with tenderness in his voice, his eyes softening. "He didn't want to."

"Yolyou- what?" she asked.

"Yolyuvonmaar," he repeated. "Fire Gold Terror. That was his name."

"Oh." What was she supposed to say to that?

They stood there for a while, both silently staring down at the remains of the dragon. Lydia was unsure of what to do. Something was wrong, of course, and it was bothering her Thane, but she didn't know what to say.

An icy wind blew through the clearing, reminding her that it was winter and it was cold, despite the intense heat that was here. She shivered and shouldered her packs, and her Thanes, and reached down to pick up his ebony sword. It was a beautiful weapon, black as night, and he'd picked it off of some dead bandit long ago. It was his favourite weapon, along with his beautifully carved Orcish bow. But it was covered in dragon blood, and so was he. They needed to leave.

So she grabbed his arm lightly and pulled him away from that place. He didn't protest as she led him out of the scorched clearing and into the darkening woods. It smelled better here, of pine needles and snow and fresh clean air, and it was not long before the slivers of Masser and Secunda could be spotted through the canopy.

She led him north through the woods and they walked in silence for hours, not stopping until the twinkling fires of Riften were shimmering between the trees and on the surface of the moonlit lake.

She decided against camping outside tonight, seeing as her Thane needed a good meal, a good rest, and a warm bath to clear his mind and body of blood.

The guards at the gates gave them no trouble, remembering the time Cato had threatened them with an apple and a sharp knife and shown them what he could do with it. And Keerava at the Bee and Barb was more than accommodating, giving them the largest room she had and sending Talen-Jei off to warm some water for a bath.

She paid the Argonian and shut the door, sighing contentedly as she leaned against it.

The room was large, the largest one here, and it had a big bed to the right and a wardrobe and dresser to the left against the wall. A fire was burning low in the hearth at the back wall. It was a nice room, and she knew the innkeeper had given them a good deal.

Cato was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at her.

"Thanks." It was the first thing he'd said to her since the clearing.

She smiled. "No worries." She frowned a bit, however, and added, "You shouldn't be sitting on the bed in that armour, though." He looked down at himself. "You're going to get blood and dirt on the sheets and I'm not paying for that."

He laughed then, and she smiled again. She never liked seeing him like this.

"Oh, so it's _your_ money now, is it?" He raised an eyebrow at her, and she moved from the door to kneel by his pack. She was glad he was feeling better.

"Well, it might as well be. You're not capable of managing your gold." She rummaged around in his sack, pulling out a simple clean shirt. "You'd bet the whole town guard a months earnings you could fly if given the chance." He laughed again.

"Yeah, probably."

It was true. He would spend his money on the most ridiculous items he could, and for no apparent reason other than that he had the coin. It was almost as if he'd never had any before. So she'd taken it upon herself to deal with the Septims and ration out their earnings. It was strange, sure, but her Thane was strange, and it was just a part of who he was.

She pulled out some clean pants and stood up to face him again.

"Here." She handed him the clothes and he reached out for them. "Take off your armour and get in the bath when its ready."

He raised an eyebrow suggestively and a little grin slid onto his face. She rolled her eyes. Well, as long as he wasn't moping about tonight she didn't care.

"Just do it, Cato."

His grin widened and he stood up, tossing the clean clothes on the bed. He started unlacing the grimy leather armour from his body, letting it fall piece by piece onto the wooden floor. She took this time to do the same, though her iron armour had simple clasps instead of strings and she found herself waiting for him to finish.

He turned around when all his armour was off but the cuirass, and she went over to him. It was laced at the back and it required another's help.

When she was done it fell to the floor with the rest and he turned around, smiling. He wore a simple chemise under his armour to stop it from chaffing, but it was dirty and probably smelled bad. She didn't want to get too close.

In their travels the two of them had rarely been near enough to an inn to enjoy a warm, well-prepared meal and a soft bed under a roof. It was something Lydia had taken for granted growing up in Whiterun, and it was a sort of treat when they stopped at one. If they were lucky, and the innkeeper didn't hate Imperials too much, they might just get a warm bath with it, too. She was tiring of the quick dips in the freezing rivers. And the best part, perhaps, was that Cato would get cleaned. He _hated_ the cold, which his Housecarl never failed to tease him about, and often refused to enter the icy waters, subjecting her to less than desirable odours when he got too close. She was certain she smelled just as lovely, though, and she never passed the chance to bathe in waters above freezing temperature.

He flopped backwards onto the bed then, surprising Lydia, who was wearing much the same as he, though her clothes were perhaps a little less disgusting. Maybe.

"Aaaahhh hahaha!" He groaned and laughed in happiness as he writhed on top of the roughly sewn quilt and the extra furs. "It's been too long since I've slept in a proper bed!"

She smiled at his childish antics, but she found herself wanting to do the same.

"Cato, get off!" She scolded, laughing lightly. He lifted his head to look at her, a big stupid smile plastered on his face. "Your shirt is dirtier than your armour."

He laid his head back down, completely ignoring her, and he pulled a bit of the quilt up to his face. He breathed it in, closing his eyes, and smiled again.

"Lydia!" He looked back up to her. "It doesn't smell like dirt or smoke!" He was referring to their own bedrolls they used in the wilds.

She shook her head at him. "You are very odd, my Thane."

"No, really. Come and smell them."

She sighed but obeyed him, and walked over to bend down and inhale the sheets. He was watching her with interest, and he smiled widely as she straightened up again, as if asking for confirmation.

She nodded. "Very nice." He was right. They smelled really good, like soap and herbs and just plain clean. "But they're going to smell like dragon blood if you don't get off them."

His smile disappeared at the mention of the dragon. She mentally kicked herself. How could she do that? It seemed as though tonight would be normal.

An icy silence filled the room and she was about to say something when a knock at the door followed by the gravelly voice of an Argonian informed them their bath was prepared.

"You go first," she told him, breaking the tense silence.

"Yeah," he agreed as he sat up on the bed. He grabbed the clean clothes and stood up, walking towards the door. He stopped before he left, and looked back to her.

"I won't be long."

"That's alright. I'll get some food."

He nodded and left her standing there, absolutely despising herself.

She waited until his footsteps disappeared down the stairs to groan in frustration and fall back on the bed like he did. It was warm from his body and she didn't even care that she was dirtying the sheets and that she'd scolded her Thane for it.

Because how could she be so _stupid?_ He was obviously attempting to forget the whole dragon ordeal and she'd gone and ruined it. She was not good at these things. She never knew what to say.

Should she just ignore it like he was? Or should she talk to him about it? Something was obviously bothering him. And, of course, she was curious about the conversation he'd had with the dragon. What did that mean?

She sighed. It had been so much easier when she didn't care about him. If this had happened half a year ago, she wouldn't even be thinking about it now.

It seemed like she never did a very good job of making or keeping friends. There had been others that might have become friends, if she'd spent time and effort on the endeavor. But she thought she was fine being alone. She thought she didn't need anyone. Most people, good and caring and true as they were, always seemed to disappoint her, and in the end she found herself simply avoiding their gazes and their attempts. It was easier.

But she'd never met anyone like Cato. He was maddening and stubborn and arrogant at times. He couldn't cook to save his life, and he hated cleaning his armour and weapons, and he always made her carry his junk around. They constantly argued and teased and sometimes wouldn't even talk to each other. Yes, he was an irritating human. Then again, so was she.

But it was what happened in between those times that endeared him to her.

He always smiled at little stupid things, like the smell of clean sheets.

And Gods but his laugh was wonderful. It rumbled from deep in his chest, and it sounded so genuine, whether he was laughing _at_ her or _with_ her. And he laughed so easily. She didn't know anyone else like that. Other people were more guarded, harder to please, less apt to smile. But her Thane, someone who clearly had seen battle more than once, and before she'd ever met him, still laughed with the innocence of youth.

And the way he always managed to find the perfect place to set up camp. It was as if he'd been across Skyrim before, many times, and knew exactly where the best lookout was, or where the trees were close enough to block out the rain, or where a small stream wound its way nearby.

She would never admit it, but he was very clever. She could lay on her back and listen to him point out constellations in the sky beside her all night long, or go on about the politics of Cyrodiil while they trudged across the land, backs bent with the weight of goods, bodies sweating under the midday sun. She couldn't understand half of what he said, but she liked his voice and his company.

They fought well together, too. She liked her heavy iron armour and her two-handed greatswords while he preferred his lighter leather armour and his little ebony sword and bows. It was strange, she thought, but she would admit that two different fighting styles worked better than similar ones. She was the tank, taking the brunt of the damage, while he would sweep in a volley of arrows from on high or slice enemies from behind with much more grace than she could ever manage.

And they had grown to understand each other without having to say much. When something needed to be said, it was said and they both moved on. Her favourite moments with him were not spent discussing the goings-on of the world, but in silence. They could walk an entire day without a word and be content. She loved sitting at an inn with him, listening to the conversations of others, the only communication between the two being some raised eyebrows and knowing smiles.

And, annoying as he was, she had to smile whenever he stopped to pick flowers for potions, or when he'd halt their hiking to watch the mammoths make their slow journey across the wind-swept plains.

There was just something about him that she liked, and it was enough to start changing the way she did things and thought about the world. He had shown her that not everyone would disappoint, and not everyone was bad. It was so easy being around him, she thought, and she hardly noticed the changes in herself. She smiled more, and laughed more, and her eyes were open to the beauty of the world. She owed him so much.

Someone had told her once, long ago, that sometimes people come into your life and it seems they were meant to be there, and that they will affect you in some profound way. She'd laughed at that, of course, but that was before she'd met the Dragonborn. He was destined for great things, and he was the hero in everyone's lives. But they didn't know him like she did.

He'd done so much for her, changed her life, and the least she could do was ask him about his day.

She smiled, thinking back on things they'd done, and the reasons why he was her friend. Her thoughts were interrupted by her stomach growling, and she remembered she'd promised to have food for when Cato got back. So she heaved herself up off the bed and crept down the creaky wooden stairs, aware that it was late and the other patrons were likely asleep.

She was right, mostly. In the dim light of the common area she could make out two shadowy figures in a corner and an old man sitting at the bar. It was mostly silent there, except for Talen-Jei's broom scraping across the wooden floors and the fire crackling in the hearth.

Keerava offered to make Lydia a hot meal, but the kitchen fire was low and it would take too long, so she decided to buy some fresh bread and cheese. It wasn't her first choice, and she would have much rather eaten some meat or soup, but she was too hungry to care. And as much as she disliked the Black-Briars, she bought a bottle of their ale. If they couldn't eat what they wanted, perhaps the drink would make up for it. She thanked the Argonian and collected the food, creeping past the shadowy patrons and up the squeaky stairs.

She knocked on their bedroom door just to make sure. She didn't want to walk in on Cato getting dressed.

"Yeah," he answered through the door.

"It's me. I've got food."

"Hold on a second." She could hear him moving in the room, and a moment later he opened the door.

Her eyes widened when she saw him, and the first thing she noticed was that he'd shaved his short scruff so his face was bare.

"You shaved," she said blankly. He raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah, I did." He put a hand to his face and felt where his skin was now smooth. "Figured I should." She didn't answer him, and he smiled. "What, you don't like it?"

No, she most definitely _did_. He looked so much younger without facial hair. And so much nicer.

"No, I do. I mean, well, you don't look like a bandit anymore." His smile widened.

He normally had a bit of hair on his face, but it was short and it didn't really suit him. Imperials couldn't pull off beards as well as Nords. Whenever he got the chance he'd usually shaved a bit off, but never this much. Never all of it.

She liked it.

He didn't answer her, but he stepped aside to allow her into the room. He had on the clean clothes she'd given him.

"And your skin. I can actually see it. It's not the shade of dirt and blood after all, I see." She set the plate of food down on the little bedside table and he shut the door, laughing. "You clean up well, my Thane."

"Yes, well, one hardly has time for hygiene while fixing all of Skyrim's problems." She sat down on the bed and started slicing the bread with the knife Keerava gave her. He sat beside her. "You know how it is."

She snorted. "Yes, I do. I need to get cleaned up as well. I'm hungry, though." She handed him a slice with some cheese and he thanked her. "I didn't want to wait for something warm, so I just got this. Sorry."

He shoved the bread and cheese into his mouth rather ungracefully. "I don't even care. I'm starving," he muffled out.

She smiled. "And I got this." She reached over and picked up the bottle of Black-Briar mead and opened it. His face lit up and he covered his mouth with his hand as he laughed again.

"Lydia, you are my favourite, you know that?" he chuckled, mouth full, as she handed it over to him.

"I know," she stated matter-of-factly, earning herself another smile. She watched him as he took a swig and swallowed it, sighing in satisfaction.

"That's good." He gave her the bottle and she took a drink herself. The ale swirled down her throat and settled warmly in her stomach. It had a slight woody taste but it was sweet as honey. No wonder it was considered the best.

"Mhm," she affirmed, and they ate their food and ale in silence, listening to the fire and being happy they were inside and warm and together.

When Lydia was nearly full she looked up into Cato's face. She couldn't believe how nice he looked when he cleaned up. Sure, she'd always thought him alright-looking. He was never anything special, though, and his lean figure and short height had put her off for the longest time. Not to mention he was an Imperial, and she was a Nord.

She'd always liked his eyes, though. They were not strikingly blue like most others', just a simple brown. But they were bright and she liked the way they sparkled in the firelight and how the skin around them crinkled when he laughed. She squinted, noticing a discolouration around his right eye.

"I didn't even know you still had that," she nodded her head, gesturing to the bruise he still wore from when that Nord had hit him back in Windhelm. It was much fainter, though, and yellow now instead of black and blue, but it was still there, encircling his eye and over to his temple. She shuddered a bit. That trip had _not_ gone well at all.

"Yeah, it's still there," he grinned after he swallowed his food. "Though look what I got today." He lifted the fabric of his shirt up enough to let her see another large purple bruise on his side. It was elongated and nearly ran down the whole length of his torso, from his hip up to his armpit.

Lydia gasped. "Ow, how'd that happen? Are you alright?" She reached out a hand to touch it but thought she better not.

"Yeah I'm fine. Hurt's a bit, but I've had worse." He let his shirt fall again and she gave him a concerned look. "I think I got it when I fell from the dragon earlier."

Another silence filled the room. He'd brought up the dragon on his own this time, so she took it as a hint. He wanted to talk.

She shuffled back on the bed so she was leaning against the wall. She breathed out before she began.

"About that…" Ugh. She was _so_ bad at this.

He looked to her, waiting for her to continue.

"What happened today? With the dragon, I mean?" He tore his gaze from hers and stared into the flames of the hearth.

"I don't really know." She remained silent, waiting until he was ready. "He spoke to me, though. Yolyuvonmaar."

She knew it. She knew Cato had talked with the beast earlier. "What did he say?" She tried to keep the interest out of her voice, but to no avail.

He moved his hands into his lap unconsciously, still staring into the flames. "Not a lot, really. He just told me his name. And he said he was sorry."

Lydia's eyes widened in surprise. "Sorry? Sorry for what?"

"I don't know." He stood up from the bed and walked over to the fireplace, placing a hand on the wall above and leaning against it. His eyes were firmly locked on the fire.

His back was facing her, but she could tell by his posture that something was off. She didn't say anything.

"I think…" he started, not sure whether to continue or not. "I think Alduin is making the dragons fight. I think he's forcing them."

Again, Lydia was stunned. "Forcing them?"

"I think so. Yolyuvonmaar said he was sorry. I don't think he wanted to fight us."

She didn't know what to say. She was skeptical of this whole situation. "How could a dragon be forced to fight, Cato?"

"I _don't know_ " he answered back tersely, irritation or frustration in his voice, she couldn't tell. "He did, though. But he was sorry."

"Are you sad you killed him?" she dared to ask. Her voice was quiet, trying not to enrage him.

He sighed and lowered his head. "No. I mean, maybe. He did try to kill us, though. It's not like I had a choice."

She moved back across the bed so she was sitting on the edge again.

"No, you didn't. You had to. Don't feel bad."

He laughed wryly. "It's funny though, isn't it?" He turned his head to gaze back at her. "I'm the Dragonborn. The prophesised dragon-slayer. Hero of Skyrim!" He raised his hands in mock praise. "And here I am foolishly worrying about a stupid dragon." He turned around again, leaning against the fireplace, staring within. "I don't know."

She stood up from the bed and walked over to stand beside him. "You don't have to know. But it's not stupid if it means something to you."

He looked up from the flames and into her face again. His eyes darted from side to side as if searching for an answer in her gaze.

"I just… I'm a little worried, I guess. I know I have to kill them, but I don't really want to. They're beautiful creatures. They are _so_ intelligent, Lydia. So clever. It's such a shame."

Her heart ached to see such sorrow in his usually shining eyes. "I know. But you can't let them go. They're killing people, Cato. You're doing the right thing."

"Am I? What if they all don't want to? What do I do?"

She smiled warmly. "You do what you were meant to do, Dragonborn."

He smiled back.

She jerked her head to the side. "C'mon. Let's get some sleep. I'm tired."

"Yeah. Good idea."

OoOoOoOoO

"What does it feel like?"

"Hm?" He asked groggily, right on the verge of sleep.

"Absorbing a dragon soul. What's it like?"

He inhaled sharply and turned onto his side to look down at her from the bed. She could hardly make out his face in the darkness, but she could tell his eyes were barely open.

He let out his breath. "I don't know. Hot."

She snorted and took her eyes off the ceiling to look at him. She shifted her position on the ground to get more comfortable, pulling the furs closer. "Hot? Really? Thanks."

"Well, what do you want? You woke me up." His voice was thick with sleep.

"No I didn't. We were just talking a minute ago."

He sighed, obviously too tired to argue. "I don't know, Lydia. It's hot. It hurts. I don't like it."

She was quiet for a moment, contemplating something.

"Alright," she started. He turned over again on his back, thinking the conversation was over.

"But can you feel the dragons inside you? Right now, I mean? Or do you ever feel them?"

He groaned. He was obviously not getting out of this one anytime soon. "No. I can't feel them. Not now. I do whenever I kill one, though."

She was silent again, thinking.

"It's like, you know when you're about to fall asleep, you're almost there, and your whole body all of a sudden feels like it's falling? Like you're falling off a cliff or something? It's sort of like that. The whole world lurches and spins and it feels like I'm falling. Then the other dragons inside me, it's almost like they get angry and want to get out. It feels like they're breathing fire inside, and it hurts. And the dragon I just killed doesn't want to go with them. And it gets harder every time."

He let her consider that for a moment. "There. That good enough?"

She answered after another moment's contemplation. "So, it's like falling, and it's hot. And it hurts," she probed slowly.

"Mhmm."

"I still don't get it."

He groaned again. "You don't need to. Go to sleep."

She heard him turn over on his side to face the wall, and she smiled to herself.

"You _sure_ you can't explain it better or someth-?" She was cut off as a pillow was thrown onto her face from above. She took it off.

"Hey, that wasn't nice." There was the slightest trace of amusement in her voice.

"I said go to sleep."

"That's fine. I needed another pillow anyways."

"Gods help me."


	5. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello my friends! How are you all?! It is I, kiwi! I am alive! Yes, I know, you all thought I was dead! Well, here I am, alive and well and really sorry I never updated earlier. I have legitimate reasons, though. 
> 
> I had serious computer hardware issues over Christmas break, and I had next to no time to fix them. When I did, however, I realised I also had software issues too! How convenient. Just in time for the new school semester. Perfect.
> 
> Alas, here I am with a new chapter. It actually was supposed to be the first half to a larger one I was working on, but I added little bits and pieces to it and voila! 5600 words later and I've got a separate chapter. I guess it's part one? I don't know. The next chapter will occur on the same day. Maybe. If I don't change it. I'll let you know. But good news! That means the next chapter will be out very shortly! Not in another month and a half! 
> 
> So not a lot happens here, considering it's only half of a chapter, but we get the first inklings of Lydia's romantic thoughts towards Cato. Yay! FINALLY. More fluffy fluffiness and maybe a bit of angst thrown in there, too. Just to stir it up.
> 
> Ah! And this happened again! I watched The Green Hornet over Christmas break and the sidekick's name is Kato! Not Cato with a C this time, but it's still the same name! I swear to you I didn't take it from popular culture. Honestly. I seriously just Googled 'Roman names' and went through a list. I hated them all and the only half-decent one was 'Cato'. 
> 
> Dramatic conclusion, I know.
> 
> Review replies are at the end again. God. I can't write an A/N less than half a novel long.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

The snow fell about them in thick sheets, blowing in sideways and biting at their fingers and noses and ears, though Lydia didn't expect anything different from Skyrim.

At times like this she was grateful she'd been born a true Nord of Skyrim, for she'd adapted to the frigid weather and the numbing cold. She'd had to, living here, though her Nord blood, of course, had a lot to do with it. She pulled the fur coat used for such weather closer to her, and adjusted her fur-lined helmet and gauntlets. Yes it was cold, but she was well-prepared. She could handle anything this land might throw at her.

Cato, however, was faring much poorer than she. It should have come at no surprise really, but Lydia always was a bit astonished at how unfit he was for the cold. He _hated_ it, this icy weather, and often fantasised about Cyrodiil's warm grasslands and forests as they trudged through the knee-deep snows. It seemed nice, this Cyrodiil, but the Housecarl doubted she'd ever get to visit, despite her Thane's often lavish descriptions. Besides, Skyrim was her home, and though she'd never say anything to Cato, she wasn't sure how well she'd be treated in a land of Imperials. She knew how they were treated here.

The snow whirled around her and obscured nearly everything in sight, and all she could hear was the muffled howling of the winds as they passed by her armoured ears. She could make out the vast dark form of a mountain in the distance, and the trees would come into sight only just before she ambled into them.

They'd been walking for hours, it seemed, and she was beginning to think that they'd lost their way. The blizzard had picked up since they left Whiterun, and they were supposed to be heading north to Loreius Farm to fetch some supplies from the wheatmill. They were needed for the Bannered Mare, and Hulda had asked him to get her a few things for the week's end, seeing as the delivery cart never showed up. Another petty task from someone who had no qualms about using him, but Lydia had bit her tongue and accompanied him anyway.

They should have been there by now. But the blanket of sleet blotted out the sun, coalescing the sky and clouds and snowy winds into one greyish blur, and she was not certain they were headed north anymore. With each step she became less sure that they'd ever make it to the farm on time, or even find their way back in this mire. She wasn't worried, really, for she'd been stranded in storms worse than this in her past, and she'd always managed to emerge from them unharmed. A little cold maybe, and perhaps windbitten, but alive and walking nonetheless. But if she was worried about anything, it was her Thane. He'd been slowing down over the course of the day and she knew he couldn't continue for much longer like this.

So it came as no surprise to her when she heard him call out her name over the gale some time later.

She turned around and saw him there, hunched over in the snow with his furs whipping in the wind around him, a small black shape in the vast whiteness that surrounded them. And he was shivering. She drudged back through the snowfall, which was now far past her knees, until she stood beside him and bent over so she was level with him. He put his arm around her shoulders and, drawing his hood back and face close to hers so she could hear him, he spoke.

"Lydia, we need to stop!" he shouted over the winds, and she was so close she could see the snow catching in his eyebrows and could feel his warm breath on her face. It felt nice, really, a real change from the lashing winds, but right now it would feel much nicer to have the warmth come from a fire instead.

She nodded. "I know!" She straightened up and looked about, his arm still around her, but she could see nothing other than the endless flakes of sleet sinking like stones from the greying sky.

"Do you know where we are?" he asked, eyes shut tight against the wind. His ears were turning red without his hood on and the snow was whitening his dark hair.

She hesitated and looked to the sky again, but she could not, for the life of her, pinpoint the sun.

"It's going to get dark soon!" he added. Was it, though? She had no idea what time of day it was. It could have been midnight or midday for all the light they'd been given.

"I'm not sure!" she answered his first question, eyes still roaming the landscape, hoping for a break in the storm to allow her a glimpse, at least, of some recognisable landmark. Gritting her teeth in frustration, she pulled her face close to his again. "Let's get out of the open at least! I'll take a look at the map! See if I can find out where we are!"

He nodded and pulled his hood up again, not even bothering to brush the snow out of his hair. Straightening up, she kept his arm around her and added her own to his shoulders, and together they set off in the same direction they'd been headed.

It didn't take them too long before they came across another tree, a massive old pine, but the wind had worsened and the creaky old thing gave very little shelter, so they continued on.

After nearly dragging her Thane for another long while, they'd managed at last to find refuge at the leeward side of a small cliff. It was more of a simple craggy overhanging, really, but it was enough to stop the snows from blowing into their faces, and that's all they needed. Their shelter gave the illusion of a quieter space in which to speak without yelling, only because the wind was not blasting right by their ears. It still caught on the edges of the rock, whistling as it rushed past on its journey east.

Lydia set her packs down and sat against the wall in the snowy depression caused by the swirling winds, and Cato sat right next to her, his left side pressed up against her right, and drew himself up, knees to his chest. They took a moment to catch their breath. Walking wasn't hard. It was walking through the deep snow in freezing winds that was difficult. It slowed you down and made your lungs feel like they'd burst.

He pulled his hood down again and removed his gauntlets. The woolen scarf Lydia had given him was dotted with little beads of ice crystallised from his warm breath. "Gods, I'm _freezing,_ " he wheezed, breathing into his hands as he rubbed them together.

"I know," she agreed as she rummaged around in her pack, moving aside potions, hastily wrapped food, butterfly wings, a fox pelt, at least half a dozen necklaces, and a myriad of other _stuff_ that Cato made her drag across Skyrim. But she couldn't find the map. "Cato, where's the map?"

He didn't answer her. Still busy warming his hands, he nudged his own pack with his leather boot. She grabbed it and found what she was looking for right away.

His pack was exceptionally well-organised. Uncharacteristically so, but it always was. She couldn't get him to keep Breezehome clean even if she bribed him with Septims. Not even sweetrolls or Black-Briar mead would work. Well, that was unfair. He kept the place clean, just extremely and _irritatingly_ disorganised.

That's how he seemed to do most things in his life. Extreme and irritating.

She pulled out and unfolded the creased dirt-smudged map and removed her gauntlets, fingertips instantly red and numb in the icy air.

"I can't feel my nose. Or my ears. Is that normal?"

"Hm?" she asked idly, not really paying attention as she squinted at the map.

"My fingers too. I can barely move them, they're so stiff." She saw him flex his fingers from the corner of her eye. "Ahaha, it hurts!" he laughed. Not a happy laugh.

"My toes are all prickly. My boots are too thin." He paused, then sighed. "I should have listened to you."

She was still not paying him much attention, though she did hear his admittance and smiled at that. _Good. Hope he freezes._

She'd warned him to wear thicker boots. Did he listen? _Of course not_. A Nord doesn't know _anything_ about dressing for the cold.

"My legs feel like jelly. I think they're going to fall off." He stuck his hands under his long coat and rubbed his thighs, generating heat.

"You'll be fine," she answered absentmindedly, patting his knee.

Before she could pull her hand away he'd grabbed onto it with his own. It was so cold that she jumped a bit in surprise.

"Gods Cato, you're _freezing!_ "

He gave a crooked grin, one that showed that one missing tooth near the back of his mouth. He'd got it from a bar fight in Cyrodiil, he'd told her. Hardly heroic. You couldn't see it normally, though. She liked this smile, and her irritation at him dissipated into the icy wind as quickly as it had found her.

He let go of her. His cheeks and nose were red, and the scars on his hands stood out whiter than normal against his frozen skin. "I told you I was." Cursing internally she took her hand from his knee and flexed it, willing the circulation to return. "Believe me now?"

His hands were normally burning hot, especially after killing a dragon. Sometimes they were too hot to touch. Not that she normally held his hand or anything.

"Never said I didn't."

He shrugged. "I don't know. You seem to think I'll be fine. _I_ seem to think I'll freeze."

She ignored him, once again focused on the map.

"So. Any ideas?" he questioned, teeth chattering as he leaned over to get a better look, his condensed breath obscuring the map.

"Mmm, not really." She tapped a finger on the paper as she thought. Pointing to Whiterun she continued. "We left the city, what, not more than a half day ago?"

"Seems longer than that," he scoffed. She ignored him again.

"And we were headed due north." She pointed to their destination. "Loreius Farm is only a two hour walk from Whiterun on a good day. Even so, we should have been there by now, which means we either passed it because we didn't see it or we were never going north in the first place."

"Well that's not helpful."

She glared at him and he noticed.

"I didn't mean you. I meant it doesn't matter either way. We're lost and we have no idea where we are."

She sighed and pulled her coat and scarf up closer as a particularly nasty wind blew through to them.

" _I know._ That's what I'm trying to figure out."

She took her eyes off him and scanned their surroundings. The storm showed no signs of letting up any time soon, and Cato had resumed warming his hands with his breath.

Lydia considered simply setting up camp here and waiting out the storm, but she knew her friend would object. There was no room here for a tent or fire either, not if she didn't want to push the deepening snow out of the way. And she wasn't entirely sure she'd wake up in the morning to a living, breathing, warm Dragonborn.

The storm raged on and they sat there in silence, too cold for conversation or anything much, really. Lydia still clutched the map and scanned the horizon. Cato knew her well by now and he knew by the way she intently stared at the map and then at the scenery with her eyebrows creased like that and that little frown playing on her face that she was deep in thought, and would more than likely either punch him or give him a deadly cold glare if he were to interrupt with some paltry injection. So he didn't, and he let her think. Only once did he say something, and it was to suggest she put her greaves back on so her fingers wouldn't freeze. She'd simply grunted a "no, I'm fine" and continued her work. He couldn't help her because he didn't know Skyrim well. Which was fine by him. One less thing he had to worry about.

There was nothing for him to do then, really, except gaze out at the storm. The driving winds continued to pound the land with thick sleet and he could not see much further beyond their little sanctuary. The way the overhang was angled allowed for the snow to catch and swirl around them instead of into them, granting them a tiny pocket of snowless air in which his Housecarl could easily study the map. But the cold still crawled around the rock, biting and gnawing at his face and fingers, and he soon tired of the numbness he received from gazing into the infinite greyness that was before him.

He'd never been so cold in all his life.

He had joked earlier about his legs falling off, but he began to wonder if that was really possible.

He pulled his hood, scarf and jacket up right over his face to block the icy air, and like it so often did, his imagination ran wild.

No. It was stupid. Your legs couldn't _really_ fall off just from the cold.

Could they?

Lydia had mentioned something called frostbite to him once. She said men got it from improper outerwear, though it seldom happened, especially with Nords, and only to fingers and toes. He didn't know what it looked like, but he was pretty damn sure he knew what it felt like. Like something was biting off your digits. Hence the name.

His mind wandered down other, stranger paths, ones that included all the negative impacts being a legless Dragonborn would have, and if that would impede his ability to one day face Alduin, and whether or not it was possible for a human being to completely freeze solid. He was sure, though, that the cold was numbing his brain.

Lydia, however, was not thinking of such things, and instead her mind was buzzing, trying to decipher exactly where they were. She noticed Cato had let her think, and she silently thanked him for it.

After a while though, she folded the map back up and tucked it in her coat with an irritated huff. Her fingers were freezing and the map wasn't helping her much. So she sat there, lost in her own mind, simply thinking.

She wasn't one for thinking. Nords weren't, in general. They preferred to act with their swords instead of thinking with their brains. It was their strength and their weakness, really. It meant things got done, but sometimes those things were bad because nobody thought them out beforehand.

But Cato had encouraged Lydia to think for herself. Thinking, he always said, changed the world, not strength of arms. Sure it helped, but without plans and rational motives, nothing would come to fruition. And she had to admit he was right. She realised more of their battles were won when they paused, assessed the situation, and formulated a plan instead of running in, swords held high. This Cyrodiilic way of thinking worked, then.

He told her she was more than just a soldier, more than a simple servant to the Thane, and that her life had meaning and purpose separate of his own. She was smart, he'd said, and always encouraged her to speak her mind. And for the first time in her life, she believed it.

Some time later, she wasn't exactly sure when, she heard his breathing steady and felt the cold tremors stop running through him, and he leaned against her. He was dozing off on her shoulder. She smiled.

It was nice, really, being cuddled up to him like this, though she would never admit it and she would _never_ use the word "cuddle". _Ever_. He was curled against her side and it felt nice being so close to a warm body.

She'd never been one for intimacy or affection between anybody, not even her own father. She supposed it was because he was a hard man and he'd raised her as such. The physicalities even between the soldiers she'd trained with for nearly her whole life were reduced to handshakes and friendly pats on the back. She'd never yearned for the closeness of another being simply because she'd never had it. But this, _this_ was nice. It was comfortable and warm and she felt happy and safe with him here. This, she could get used to.

She stopped her thoughts in their tracks. _What am I thinking?_ _This is Cato! He's irritating and stubborn and half the time I just want to punch him!_ She half considered shrugging him off her shoulder, but he looked so helpless and small as he slept, almost like a child instead of the battleworn killer he was.

But was he, though? A killer? Sure, he _had_ killed people in the past, but he'd _had_ to have saved so many more because of it. Right? Did that warrant him evil?

He'd asked her that once, one night by a campfire, if she thought he'd go to wherever it was people went when they died, or if he'd be trapped here, or elsewhere, forever bound because the blood of innocents stained his hands.

She didn't know how to answer him then, so she didn't. But looking at him now, she could not believe that any trace of evil resided in this man. No God would refuse him when his time came. He was good inside, even if it was obscured by his irritating smirk at times. Skyrim was lucky to have him here as her hero.

She looked down into his face again, studying him. The lines of care and toil he so often carried with him had disappeared. His face was smooth, new, peaceful, young. It showed no trace of the things he'd seen and done, his experience beyond his years. There was always something lost and sad about him, something like regret, perhaps, that tainted his usually smiling face. She could see it in his eyes sometimes too, and she hated it. It wasn't here now.

He shivered in his sleep. She put an arm around him and drew him closer.

She could see the faint white streaks of scars across his face, each one telling a story. She'd been there for some, but not for all of them, though he shared the stories of them all with her. One from a bandit, one from a brawl. A couple from a slipped sword during practice. The one across the bridge of his nose, a dragon. That small one crossing his lips, a pissed-off Khajit. The one from the fight with the Nord joined them as it sat across his brow. They criss-crossed his tanned Imperial face in smooth thin lines, in jagged tears, in shallow whorls and deeper contours. Each one a monument to a past struggle, a reminder of his sins and redemptions, and the promise of a continued, albeit unknown, future.

Lydia wondered if she'd be there to see the addition of more. How long she would remain at his side to walk with him through his struggles was unknown. He could turn her away tomorrow. But if he'd have her, she'd walk with him till the end of his days and to the corners of the earth. He needed someone to take this journey with him, and she would be there. No one faces dragons on their own.

She had scars of her own, too. She could not travel with the Dragonborn and come out of a battle clean and whole. She'd received a few before she'd met him, but all the important ones were earned in his company. She was proud of them, even the ones on her once-beautiful face, because it showed the world she had fought and hurt and had made it. But his were deeper, old and new, and worth more than hers would ever be. He'd deny it of course, and so would all of Skyrim, but she knew it.

Each new scar he received hardened his look, added to the list of reasons why he was not to be trusted, made him more foreboding to others who did not know him. But she _did_ know him, and she still saw the scrawny man who walked through the doors of Dragonsreach all that time ago. He was still the man that smiled and laughed and took his Housecarl on adventures. The one who gave his time and money and body and fought tirelessly for a country that hated him all because of where he was born and the colour of his skin. These scars were _from_ and _for_ Skyrim herself. It showed the world he was only human and his skin was just like theirs. It showed them he was not a God or a perfect deity, and that he made mistakes and got hurt too. Cowards had no scars. It told the story, _his_ story, and how hard he struggled to make it.

She smiled sadly and leaned her head against his. He meant so much to her.

She supposed he had been handsome once, or would have been, if not for his scars. He was not ugly, of course, and she never thought he was, but he was not perfect. In a perfect world, his scars would never show, and he'd be there, smiling a smile on his unspoiled face, untainted by experience or regret or pain. But the world wasn't perfect. If it was, Skyrim would have no need of a hero anyways.

And despite what he said or thought, _love_ had made these scars, not hate. Love of something more and bigger than himself, of some greater purpose or end. To forget, maybe, or to remember. It didn't matter. She knew it because after every new one, after the bleeding had stopped and the flesh shown raw, he had continued on fighting. Hate wasn't that strong. It never had been. Love was.

They marred his features but somehow made him more beautiful. It was _him_ , in his simplest form, and she wouldn't have him any other way.

She knew he carried more scars on his body. She'd seen them before. But she also knew there were older ones, ones that ran too deep and that she couldn't even see. Some wounds he'd carried with him for longer than the others and with these the pain still lingered. He hadn't told her about those ones yet.

She'd be there, though, when he did. She promised him that.

An icy blast of wind tore Lydia from her reflections and she shivered, blinking, trying to grasp onto reality again. As nice as it was sitting here with her friend, she needed to get them out. She looked around her, but the snow still drove with unending force, and she could not see beyond.

Gods, where were they?

She breathed out loudly in frustration and watched her warm breath coalesce and twist in the frigid air. It looked like dragon vapour, or those ice wraiths in the mountains, and it was almost pretty if one didn't consider the fact that they were stranded out in the wilds with absolutely no idea where they were.

Mountains.

And then it dawned on her.

She stood up abruptly, frozen joints creaking like leather, jerking her Thane to consciousness. Her eyes squinted and she focused on something in the distance.

"What's wrong?" In half a second he had stood up beside her, ebony blade drawn and tensed as if prepared to fight, all trace of fatigue burned out of him. He clenched his jaw and darted his eyes around, searching for whatever had startled her. She couldn't believe how quickly he'd changed. He looked like a predator now, not some sleeping child.

"It's nothing. It's fine." She touched his arm lightly to calm him, and a moment later he sighed.

"Gods, Lydia, _don't do that_." He sheathed his blade and his posture slacked.

Still startled by his change, her mind managed to take notice of his looks. His short hair was ruffled and spiked a bit from sweating under his hood and rapidly being exposed to the icy air. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving in rhythm to her own quickening pulse, and he was eyeing her intensely, obviously trying to shake himself of sleep and deny that he'd even done so in the cold on a break and on her shoulder. His face was flushed from sleep and warmth and something else, maybe. It was bare again from a recent shave, and she couldn't help but think he'd kept it up because she'd told him he looked nice like that. He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiate from him, and even though he wasn't touching her any more, he was still keeping her warm. He looked –

No. _He doesn't. Stop it, Lydia._

She was embarrassed by her thoughts and her cheeks turned red. She couldn't get it out of her mind, though, that he looked _really good_ right now.

The heat rose in her face and she turned away, trying to ignore the hot and prickly feeling on the back of her neck and in the pit of her stomach.

"Sorry. I just – I see something, I think."

His fleeting irritation dissolved at her words, and pulling his hood back up he took a step closer. Her stomach flipped again. _Get ahold of yourself!_ Looking to her eyes and then to where she was gazing in the distance he shook his head.

"What? I don't see anything."

She hesitated, shaking herself from her thoughts, and squinted her eyes even tighter. "See those mountains over there?" she asked, aiming a frozen finger in some vague direction in front of her.

Cato looked again, harder this time, but he couldn't really make anything out.

"Mountains? That dark thing, you mean?" He pointed in the general direction of a mass that was somewhat darker than the swirling greyness that surrounded them.

"Yeah."

"That doesn't look like a mountain to me."

She tore her gaze from the mountains at last and frowned at him.

"What?" he shrugged.

"They're mountains. Trust me."

"Alright, alright. Whatever you say," he innocently acknowledged, slumping down in the snow again. He played with his gauntlet absentmindedly like a scolded child. She bit back a laugh. How he could go so quickly from sleeping child to poised warrior back to a child in such a quick time greatly amused her.

That was strange, though, what happened only a moment ago, and her mind was wrenched back into her thoughts again. Why had she thought that? She hadn't thought that before, and it took her off guard. He was her Thane, her master, the Dragonborn of legend. He was her friend, and _nothing_ more. He would _never_ be anything more. She knew that. And yet…

His scars didn't matter anymore, she realised. She could see past them now, or through them. Or maybe she saw them as part of him, and it only added to his features now. She'd never seen him quite like this before. Yet she couldn't help thinking that he _did_ look good.

There. She said it. Was that so hard?

And what was the big deal? Did it really even matter? No.

It's not like it changed anything.

Did it?

No. Never.

She had seen the looks some women had given him sometimes when they thought he was looking. They'd tried to catch his eye, some more, ah, _forthcoming_ than others. He wasn't some big, burly, sweaty bearded Nord like so many of the men here were. He was different, exotic to some even, and mysterious in a way all his own. She could see the allure now. And it terrified her.

She would not let this little crush get in the way of her arrangement with him.

She laughed internally. A crush then, was it? It was _pathetic_. She wasn't some chatty schoolgirl pointing in the yard at a boy, giggling with her friends. She was a warrior with an oath to protect and serve him to her dying breath.

Oh Gods. That sounded like marriage vows.

She had a fleeting image of her standing at the altar in Riften with him beside her and all their friends and family around and music playing and people watching and –

She blinked, head spinning and ears ringing, pulling herself from her train of dire thoughts and bringing it to a sudden and cataclysmic crash, and trying to decipher _what the fuck_ just happened.

This was Cato. She hated him more than she could say she liked him. And she cursed him for encouraging her to "think for herself." This is what happened when she did. Things got weird and she didn't like it.

"You alright?" she heard him ask. His voice sounded distant, almost underwater, but she grabbed onto it and pulled herself back.

"Hm?" she shook her head for what felt like the millionth time.

" _I said_ are you alright? It looks like you've seen a ghost or something."

She swallowed and looked at his face. He was gazing up at her, worry etched in his features.

"I'm fine." He arched his eyebrow disbelievingly. "Really."

They gazed at each other for a moment, piercing blue into bright brown, daring the other to break first. There was amusement in his own, and that touch of sadness she hated so much, but there was something else there, too, she thought. Something that cut her to the bone. Or maybe it was her mind playing tricks on her.

She was the first to cave. She sighed and pulled the map back out of her coat. She sat down slowly beside him, eyes on the parchment. She couldn't look at him anymore, couldn't bear to see what his eyes showed her, but she could almost _feel_ the smile on his face, if it were possible.

"I think, if I'm right, I know where we are." Her voice was strained like bending steel.

"Really?" he straightened up, hovering over the map. "Where?"

She tensed and pushed him away lightly with her shoulder. He was too close, and she couldn't handle it right now. "Cato, I can't see. Move back a bit." He obeyed but still stared at the map as if it held all the secrets in the world.

What was she thinking about again? Damn him. Then she remembered.

"Alright. So those mountains over there, they're these ones here." She pointed to an angular sketch representing mountains on the yellowed paper. They were directly west of their destination. "The farm is here, and there's no mountains anywhere near it. There's none over here, too," she added, pointing to the area east of Loreius Farm. "I know we kept somewhat on course, but I think we got lost when the sun disappeared."

"So," he drawled, chewing his lip as he contemplated what she said. He tore his gaze from the map to look at her. "We're west of the farm, then?" She nodded, burning a hole through the map with her eyes. She refused to look at him. "How far?"

She eyed the scenery once again. "Quite far, I think. The mountains aren't too far away. I'd say, I don't know, maybe another half day's walk?"

"Shit," he growled in frustration, drawing back from her. She sighed in relief. "That's too far. We'll never make it."

"Sure we can." His face clouded and he gave her an indignant look. She smirked at the map. "Well, _I_ can. Not sure about you, though. I might be dragging a Cato icicle back to Whiterun if we tried."

"Ha ha, you are _so funny,_ " he retorted, clearly not amused, though this only widened her smile. He thought back to his previous musings about his legs and freezing solid and blushed at the stupidity of them, but it was so cold and his cheeks were already rosy she'd never notice. "Seriously though. I'm freezing my ass off and I don't want to stay here."

"What do you want then?"

He sighed and scanned the horizon. "I don't know. Is there anywhere closer on the map?"

"Umm," she started, glancing over the parchment. "There's only a couple of tombs and caves. We can get closer to the mountains and maybe find another place like this, if you want."

It took him a moment to decide the next course of action. He certainly didn't want to walk in the blizzard any more than he needed to, and he'd pretty much used up his allotted patience and strength for it. Then again, here wasn't really an option, either. It was still cold and windy and there was no room to sleep. Also, he _really_ didn't want to find out if his legs would actually fall off, or if he truly could turn into an icicle. He sighed.

"Sure. Sounds good."

"Alright, let's go then."

She knew he was excited to find somewhere warm and dry. She was, too. But she was much more thrilled to simply be moving again, because that meant she was one step closer to sleep where she could forget all about her silly musings of her Thane.

_Damn him_ , she cursed, and not for the first or last time that day.


	6. A Normal Afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello everyone! So here is the next chapter. It is completely random and does not contribute to the overall story in any way, except perhaps to let us glimpse into the love-hate relationship between Housecarl and Thane a bit more. It's lighter and happier and it has less angst. Scars was a bit too angsty, maybe. I wrote it in only two nights so it's probably rough. And yes, the jokes are shitty and the pacing is bad, but hey, there you go. Something for you to read.
> 
> I started writing and kept going and then it turned into another 7,000 word chapter. It is not the second half of Scars like I said it might be. In fact, this chapter is not even done. They will get to the tomb like Cato said, but it will occur in the next chapter set to be released some time next week. I just wanted to get something out for you. 
> 
> So review if you feel like it, please. I'd love to hear from you. Actually, it means a lot and helps me write better when I hear what people think about my stories. 
> 
> Thanks! Enjoy!

_The assassination of Reman III and his son and heir Juilek at the end of the Four Score War with Morrowind marked the end of an era, if not the end of the Second Empire. Under the Akaviri Potentates, the system of governing continued to evolve throughout the Eras, progresses that abruptly ended with the assassination of the last Potentate in the year 2E 430._

Lydia shook her head slowly. Too many big words. She didn’t understand half of them.

She flipped a few pages nearer the front, hoping to find something, anything, more interesting than the ancient Cyrodiilic government system. The yellowed calfskin pages crinkled from years and years of use. She couldn’t imagine that so many people had read it, how _anyone_ could possibly want to read this book for pleasure. It was so mundane. And it smelled old. And yet here she was. She smiled wryly.

_The next great transformation of the land came from distinctly external forces. The foiled Akaviri invasion of 2703 brought about a new dynasty, and a new spirit of cooperation among independent nations, dedicated to fighting the common threat. Under the Emperor Reman I, Cyrodiil became truly cosmopolitan, incorporating aspects of High Rock, Colovia, Nibenay and the sophisticated….._

Nope. Not any more interesting.

The clouds rolled over the greying afternoon sky, and the first patterings of rain could be heard falling dully on the thatched roof. The Housecarl looked up from her book again when the faint light of the clouded sun disappeared completely, casting the interior of Breezehome in a dull grey shadow. She sighed and smiled.

She loved the rain. Always had. Especially here, where no matter how hard it fell it wasn’t deafening. The straw roof of her Thane’s house always muffled the sound, and the two of them could continue their conversation without stopping to wait for a break in the storm. She loved nothing more than this, than sitting by the fire listening to the rain. It was so quiet and she usually fell asleep to the melodic patterings. She felt safe and warm and she could relax. It was a rare luxury she only afforded herself here.

But with rain came grey skies, and grey skies brought darkness, and darkness needed light. If she wanted to continue reading, she’d have to fetch a candle. And that meant getting up.

So she sighed again and uncurled herself from her usual seat by the low-burning hearth before rummaging around in a kitchen drawer for nearly five whole minutes, cursing her Thane the entire time. He was so disorganised.

She found one, finally, and lit it from the fire already burning in the room. She set it on the table beside her before settling herself down to read again.

_The slave rebellion of Alessia in the 242nd year of the First Era is a seminal event in the history of Cyrodiil, and all of Tamriel. While humans and Elves had been battling in Skyrim for some time and the Slave Queen's revolt could not be called the first victory of men over mer, it represents a turning point in the continental power structure. The heart of Tamriel was going to belong to these former slaves, present day Cyrodilics or Imperials, forever more._

She blinked. Former slaves? Cato’s ancestors had been _slaves?_ Oh, she just _had_ to tell him that!

The front door flew open then, causing Lydia to nearly jump out of her skin as it cracked off the wall with such force she was surprised the door handle hadn’t shattered against it. She shivered as a rush of cool air blew in and sucked the warm air out. The candlelight flickered in the wind, casting shadows on the walls, but it didn’t go out.

Cato stepped inside with a grin and slammed the door, soaking from head to foot. He turned and locked, unlocked, and locked the door again like he did every time he came home. Except this time he was dripping water all over the entrance.

“Hellooo! Hey, Lydia! What’s going on? What are you reading? Never mind, I don’t care. So listen,” he rambled as he stepped forward and shook his dark hair, sprinkling water over everything within range. Lydia frowned, heart still pounding from her fright. “I heard from someone earlier today that there’s been a new tomb discovered in The Pale. An old one. _Ancient,_ even.” She raised her eyebrows. Right to the point, then. He walked across and slumped down with a sigh in his hearth-side chair next to hers, weapons belt clanging against the wood. He stuck his feet out near the fire to get warm. Her frown deepened.

“You’re trailing mud inside.” He stopped, mouth hanging open, and looked down to his mud-crusted boots. He shrugged and waved her off. She bristled. “I don’t want to clean up after you. Again. So take them off.”

“Not that any of the tombs around here _aren’t_ ancient, of course. They all are. Anyways, apparently some hunter stumbled across it last week. Nearly broke his leg, too,” he continued, completely ignoring her. She grit her teeth. “I think it’s an underground tomb, and I think it’s grown over, but I got a rough location out of the guy. Here, look.” He leaned closer as he pulled a small, dirty damp map from his pocket and unfolded it, pointing to a random spot he’d marked with a T. Where he got the thing she had no idea, and she didn’t really care to find out. “It’s right here, at the foot of the mountain just northwest of here. Shouldn’t be too hard to find, really. Apparently it’s in the jack pine copse near some swamp. I think we can – ”

“Where’d you get this information?” She gave him a sideways glance.

“I – why?” he asked.

“Just wondering. Who told you about it?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” he countered defensively.

She shrugged. “No, not really. Except you smell like a meadery. You reek.” He leaned back from her and frowned. “You were at the Drunken Huntsman again, weren’t you?”

“No,” he answered after a too-long pause.

She closed her book and crossed her arms.

“I – why does it matter to you where I go?” He scowled like a child and Lydia had to bite back a laugh. “Fuck, you sound like my mother. I’m a grown man. I can go wherever I want. And I like it there. Hulda’s a bitch, and Anoriath doesn’t –”

“I don’t care, Cato. I’m not drilling you. I was just wondering.” He glared at her, arms crossed as well, for a long moment. “Alright?”

“Hm.” He sighed and stood up, swaying from side to side a bit. She grabbed his rain-soaked arm to steady him.

“How much have you been drinking?”

He darted his eyes around, caught. “A bit.”

“ _Just_ a bit?” she smiled shrewdly.

He threw his arms in the air. “Gods Lydia! Alright, I’ve been drinking. Happy?” She laughed and his eyes narrowed. Unamused. “Ha ha. Now get your shit together. We’re leaving.” He turned and stormed up the stairs.

“To the tomb?” She twisted around in her seat to see him.

“Yes. Let’s go,” he answered, not even looking at her.

Her laughter died. “Wait. Now?”

“Yeah,” he bellowed from upstairs. “So hurry the fuck up.” Yes, he had _definitely_ been drinking. He only really swore when he was in pain or when he’d had a few mugs.

“But it’s raining out.”

“So?” She heard him rummage around in his bedroom chest. “You afraid of the rain or something?”

“I’m – no.”

“Good. Hurry up. I’m already packed.”

She groaned and looked out the window. The rain was pounding down now. “I doubt that,” she mumbled.

He gave a harsh bark. “Oh ho ho! Really? You want to see?” How he heard her all the way upstairs in the next room was beyond her.

“No. I don’t care,” she hollered back. Heaving herself up from her chair she returned _A Brief History of the Empire, Book I_ to its place on the shelf. Why had she _ever_ thought reading those stupid books would help her understand Cyrodiil or Imperials any better? They were _all_ ignorant, irritating bastards.

She took this time to hastily buckle up her steel armour and slip into her shiny new boots. Her old ones had finally been dented beyond recognition and repair, and she’d only had them for half a year. Travelling with the Dragonborn presented its challenges. More than dealing with his occasional sporadic slight drunken impulses.

She heard the floorboards creak above her and he plodded down the stairs, half covered in leather armour, baggy travelling pack hanging loosely from his shoulder.

She sighed but smiled. He was such an idiot sometimes. “Here.” She took his pack and set it down. It was too light. She’d have to go through it herself, of course. She didn’t say anything to him as she fitted his bracer to his forearm and tightened his leg pieces, nor as she took his cuirass and placed it around his chest before lacing it up at the back like she’d done so many times before. Except recently she’d had to hide her reddening face and pretend her heart wasn’t about to burst through her chest from being so close to him. Thank Talos she didn’t have to lace it at the front.

“So. I was thinking,” he began after a silence only interrupted by the dull thud of the rain on the roof, apparently forgetting their previous arguments. He still tottered a bit, making it hard for her to do her work. “We should stop at the market and pick up some bread and cheese and other stuff for our trip. I think we ran out.”

“Cato,” she sighed, grabbing his arm as he teetered a bit too violently for her. “It’s raining out. The stalls are closed.”

“Oh.”

“And while _you_ were out getting drunk with those elves, _I_ was here making some things. A few loaves of bread, some soup, a snowberry –”

“Really?”

“ – pie, some smoked meat, and I even cooked those rabbits we caught last week. It’s all in the kitchen.”

He spun around, making Lydia lose her place with his laces, smiling a big stupid smile, and _hugged_ her. More like squeezed her uncomfortably tight. “Thanks, Lyds. What would I do without you?” Her eyes widened in shock. If he wasn’t inebriated right now she was positive he could hear her heart thrashing in her ribcage. He was too warm, whether because of the alcohol or because his skin was always like that she didn’t know or care. She pushed him away.

“Get off me. You still smell like a drunk. Didn’t you change your clothes?” Her cheeks went red at the unexpected close contact. Cato was a touchy drunk, too. She’d forgot.

He didn’t seemed phased by his rejected show of affection. “No. Why would I?”

She shook her head. “Just get your belt on. Your bow’s over by the shelf. I got the string fixed yesterday. And don’t forget your quiver this time.”

“Yes, _mother,_ ” he muttered as he turned around. She left him and let him struggle with his weapons while filling his pack with the food she made earlier. He hadn’t packed any potions either, so she just grabbed a few basic ones.

“Are you hungry?” she called from the kitchen. “You should eat something before we go.”

“No. I ate earlier.”

“Okay.”

“Gah! Gods damned –”

“You alright over there?” She’d heard his sword drop on the wooden floor. For the third time.

“I can’t – this _fucking_ sword – I swear –”

“Do I need to _completely_ dress you today, my Thane?”

“Fuck off.”

“Alright,” she smirked, pushing aside the wrapped strips of dried venison to make room for their water flasks. Cato grumbled a few choice words to the nine divines as he struggled.

When she was done she wandered back into the living room with his heavy, now-full pack on her shoulders and smiled, clearly amused. “That’s on backwards, you know.”

He gave her a puzzled look before glancing down at his weapons belt. “Shit.”

“Here, let me do it.” She unbuckled his sword belt from his waist, willing her face to stay pale, and stepped back, eyeing it carefully. “You forgot your dagger. Did you realise that?”

“I don’t want to take it,” he slurred.

“Really? You sure?”

“Ah.” He looked at the ceiling for a moment, thinking. “No.”

She laughed again, handing his belt to him. “I know I shouldn’t say anything, _my Thane_ , but you really shouldn’t drink this much before heading out on a journey.” She scanned his weapon rack for his little ebony dagger. He had a real affinity for the black weapons, apparently. “Something could happen while you’re, ah, intoxicated. People’s senses are slower when they’re drunk, you know.”

“I do what I want.”

She smiled. “I know. Just a suggestion.”

“And I’m not drunk.”

“Yes, my Thane.”

“And it’s _Cato,_ Lydia.”

“Yes, Cato Lydia.”

“Fuck.”

She found the weapon and slid it into its little sheath on his belt right beside the matching sword. He eyed her with perhaps too much interest, his short wet hair still matted to his head. “There. Turn around now.”

He obeyed and she buckled his belt back on, her cheeks betraying her this time.

_Gods Lydia. You’re like a school girl._

She stepped back, satisfied. “Alright. Ready then?”

He turned around slowly, eyes heavy. “Yep.”

“Me too. I just have to run upstairs and grab something.” She made to leave but he grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

“What are you getting?”

He eyed her so intensely she was frightened he could read her mind.

“Something.” She tugged herself out of his grip.

“Why aren’t you telling me?” he frowned, letting her arm go.

“Why does it matter to you where I go?” She threw his own words back at him, a smile threatening to form on her face.

“Fine. Fuck it. I don’t care.” She turned and jogged up the stairs, smiling. “Get your shit and let’s go.”

She was only grabbing her bedroll, but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to piss him off. He did it to her too often to let this chance slip through her fingers.

“There’s mud _everywhere_ up here. What were you doing?”

“Getting ready.”

“In _my_ room? And how in the name of Talos did you get mud on the table?”

“I don’t know.”

And for added measure she just sat on her bed for a good five minutes.

“That’s it? That’s what you were getting?” he asked as he watched her stroll down the stairs. “I thought it was something secret or some stupid women shit.”

“ ‘Women shit’? What does that even mean?” She strapped the bedroll to her pack.

He shuffled from foot to foot, suddenly and, she couldn’t help thinking with a grimace, _endearingly,_ embarrassed. “Ah. I meant, you know. Every month you… ah, shit. Your… _womanly stuff,_ ” he whispered.

Well. All trace of his appeal vanished in the blink of an eye. Her face burned with the heat of a thousand suns.

“No, Cato. It’s not my womanly stuff.” She couldn’t look at him.

He sighed and visibly relaxed. “Oh, good. I don’t think I could have dealt with _that_.”

She opened her mouth to ask just _what the hell_ he meant by that, but she snapped it shut. She was _not_ going to have a conversation with him about her _womanly stuff._

“Right. Well. Off to this tomb. Let’s go then.”

“Yes! Let’s.” He unlocked the door and threw it open, standing in the doorway letting the cold wind and the rain blow in. He twisted around with a fierce grin but it fell when he looked at her. “What?”

She hesitated. “Hold on. You sure we should be doing this? I mean, we should probably wait. This could turn out bad.”

“How so?” he asked, shutting the door again so he could hear her.

“Well, you’re having trouble standing up, for one.” He looked at his feet. “And it looks like you’re about to fall asleep. I won’t even mention the sword.”

He waved her off.

“Nah. We’ll be fine.” He smiled the grin that exposed his missing tooth and put his hand on his chest, as if taking an oath, when she frowned at him skeptically. “Trust me.”

“Remember Solitude?”

He dropped his hand and his cheeks reddened. “That wasn’t my fault.”

“It wasn’t? Are you saying someone else made you strip down to your smalls and run – ”

“Lydia.”

She thought about it for a moment. She really shouldn’t have even consider letting him go out like this. He really could get hurt. But then again, it was only, what, a day’s journey? Maybe two? They wouldn’t be gone long. And he wasn’t _that_ drunk either. She’d seen him much worse than this. He was hilarious when he was drinking, so if anything she’d get a few good laughs from this little impromptu journey.

“Alright.” He grinned again and she pointed a finger at his chest. “But if you die doing something stupid, I’ll kill you.”

“Deal.”

She swung her travelling pack on her back and attempted to put Cato’s on for him before he slapped her hand away with an _“I can do it.”_

She had to pick him up off the rain-slickened cobbles twice before they finally made their way out the gate, the guards there giving them strange looks. And she narrowly prevented him from arrest when he asked one of the guards just _what the fuck he was looking at._ He was drunk, she explained, and they let him go with a warning and a told her to keep him under control.

So, all in all, a pretty normal afternoon.

 

The rain was still pouring down on them four hours later. It thudded off of Cato’s leather armour and chinked off of Lydia’s steel. She alternated between wearing the matching helm and wearing nothing. It protected her from the rain and she could see clearer, but the sound was simply deafening.

The sky hadn’t lightened as they’d journeyed either, and the clouds only darkened and grew as they gathered in the East. They were in for one hell of a storm.

Cato always walked ahead of her by not more than five or six paces. Except when they were in the cities. She’d stick pretty close to him then, ever since the whole Windhelm incident. She couldn’t be certain some crazed, furious Imperial hater or someone with a grudge wouldn’t stick him with a dagger and run off.

She stepped in the footprints he made on the muddy ground. His boots were smaller than hers, and his stride was slightly shorter. Was it just her heavier boots? Or did she have bigger feet? They’d never compared them. Their hands were the same size, and he was a hair’s breadth taller than her. But their feet? She’d have to remember to ask him.

Her stomach twisted at the thought of them touching feet.

_Really?_ Feet were the least attractive body part on the human physique. There was literally _nothing_ nice about them. They were ugly and smelly and his were wrinkled half the time from the water leaking through his thin leather boots. But nevertheless she got those damned butterflies just at the thought.

It had been hard and more than a little awkward stemming her recent physical attraction for her Thane. Ever since that time in the blizzard she simply tried to forget it or think of something else whenever things like this happened. It was so difficult sometimes and it seemed her body disagreed. Butterflies, blushes, stutters, you name it. Any childish reactions to seeing him do something she liked or say something funny unwillingly occurred.

This stupid crush, she internally cringed, _was_ getting in the way of things. It was near impossible already dealing with her irritating Thane.

It was embarrassing. It was unprofessional. It was wrong.

But she couldn’t help it. It happened anyway.

Gods, she had too much time to think.

She nearly ran in to him when he slowed to walk beside her.

“Alright. So why’d you make me come out in this?” he asked, voice sobered now. He pulled down his hood and squinted up at the grey sky, the rain forming little rivulets down his scarred tanned face, and she pushed him. Not that lightly either. “Ow. What the fuck?”

“ _Make you come?_ Excuse me, but _you_ _insisted_ on this trip. Not me. And stop swearing.”

“I can say whatever fucking shit I want,” he spat. She nearly clouted him. She chose instead to ignore his childish retort.

“So don’t blame me.”

“Whatever. This is still your fault.”

“ _My fault?_ ” she nearly screeched as she stopped in her tracks. The tension was building. He really was pissed. And she was getting there.

He stopped a few paces ahead of her. “Yeah. You’re my Housecarl. Aren’t you sworn to carry my burdens and protect me with your life or something?” He waved a hand in the air nonchalantly. “And you let me leave the house like this. Drunk. Ill-equipped. In the rain.” She glared daggers at him. They walked in silence a few steps more, Lydia barely containing her temper, before a dark grin slid across his face. He clicked his tongue. “What would the Jarl say if he knew?”

She froze and her insides turned to fire. He’d gone too far. Questioning her work ethic? He’d joked about it before, but this was different. He wanted to hurt her, and he did. She seriously contemplated punching him and only some arbitrary shred of common sense stopped her before she did. She returned the smile. She could play this game as well.

“I don’t think he’d care much,” she replied coolly. He was obviously not expecting that. She’d netted his attention. “You do stupid things all the time. Everyone knows you’re a drunk.”

The rain wiped the grin from his face and she watched as it extinguished the spark in his eyes.

He just stood there in the rain, letting it fall on his face and flatten his dark hair to his head. She had to squint to see him well in the greying light but she could tell even from here that there was hurt and contemplation on his face.

“Do they really?” he asked. “Think I’m a drunk, I mean.”

She sighed. “No.” He didn’t believe her, she could tell. She took a tentative step nearer until she was an arm’s length away, close enough to touch. She hesitated, unsure whether she should or not.

He looked… sad. Just sad. Sad and empty, like a candle with the flame gone out. Not angry or pissed anymore. Her words had cut him deep, and it nearly broke her heart.

_Gods damn him_. Only _he_ could make her want to punch him one moment and hug him the next.

_Hug? Lydia, you’re going soft._

“Cato, they don’t. I was just saying stuff.” She murmured just loud enough so he could hear her over the rain as she scanned his face, reading him, looking for a sign. “You know that.”

He skimmed her face as well, looking for any mark of deceit. “You sure?”

“Positive,” she smiled, and she reached out to touch his arm.

They stood there in the rain facing each other. Lydia’s heart beat wildly and she didn’t know why. And she couldn’t have known it, but his did too.

And they didn’t have to open their mouths for the other to understand what they both wanted to say but couldn’t.

_I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?_

He flashed a smile. He could. And so could she.

They started walking again, side by side this time, their past quarrel utterly forgotten. Everything was smoothed over, the tension diffused, returned to normal.

He was an irritating son of a bitch most of the time but this was why she liked him.

 

“So you know what I learned today?”

“Gods, you sound like school kid.”

“ _Ha ha_. Do you want to know or not?”

“Sure.”

He slowed again so she could catch up.

The rain had finally, _finally_ stopped. It was still grey out and only getting darker as the late spring evening approached, but the ground was still soggy and they had to constantly watch out for deep puddles and gullies in the uneven rocky Pale ground.

Lydia couldn’t be happier. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could handle the rain. She loved it, of course, but not walking through it for hours on end. And Cato couldn’t complain either. At least it wasn’t snow.

“So, you know that book I was reading?”

“Yeah.”

“It was a history book. On Cyrodiil.”

He seemed intrigued. “Really? I thought you were more the battle strategy type. Why were you reading that?”

“I don’t know, really. It was so boring.” He laughed and she smiled at him.

“They are, aren’t they? Emperors and laws and quiet secessions aren’t _nearly_ as interesting as dragon slayers and extinct Dwarven civilisations.” He waved his hands in the air theatrically.

“Not nearly, no.”

“You Nords are so much more glorious and epic than we’ve ever been.”

“Yeah. We don’t really do the whole thinking and talking thing very well.”

He laughed again. “No. You just prefer to Shout each other to pieces whenever you get pissed off. And then you become a hero and send your people into a civil war.” He smirked.

She ignored the jab at the High King. It was a touchy subject with her. “Anyways –” she pressed.

“Hold on. I thought Nords couldn’t read.” She raised her eyebrows at him. “Well I know you can. But most can’t, can they? I mean, there isn’t a college like there is in Cyrodiil here. Just the Mages, but most Nords aren’t magi, right? So there’s nowhere for you to learn.” They walked in silence while he thought, boots squishing in the mucky dampness. “Where’d you learn to read?”

She turned from him and stared at the soggy ground. “Farengar taught me.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.”

“Yeah.”

He eyed her carefully. “What did your father say about that?”

She didn’t answer him right away. When she did, her voice was strained. “Not much. He always thought it was a waste of time. He still doesn’t like the man for it.”

“Your father doesn’t like much, though,” he joked lightly. “Especially me.”

She laughed, heart not quite in it.

“I think he’s still convinced I’ll march into the city with a legion of Imperials any day now.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I might. Just to mess with him.”

“Hm.”

He figured out from her tense footsteps and her clipped tone she was done with this conversation.

_Alright then. Maybe later._

“So. About this book.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.”

“What did you learn?”

“Yeah.” She shook her head, pulling herself back. “I, ah, I was reading it, and did you know that apparently all Imperials today came from the escaped slaves during some riot?”

“The Slave Queen’s revolt, yeah. I know.” He glanced sideways at her and noticed her thinning lips. “You’re making fun of my people, aren’t you?”

“No,” her voice trembled, betraying her. “I just thought it was interesting.”

“Mhm. And you were going to follow up with some joke about me being your slave or something. Right?”

“No.” She almost laughed aloud. Almost.

He was glad she was alright. Another crisis averted.

“Well, good. Because you’re _mine._ ”

“Hey!” she laughed, only slightly hurt. “I am _not_ your slave!”

“Mm, you kind of are.”

“No I’m not. I get paid for this, you know.”

Whatever he was going to say next was lost on him. Grabbing her arm, he stopped walking and spun to face her, eyes wide. “Really? You get _paid_ to be my Housecarl?”

She gave him a peculiar look. “Well, yeah. Why else do you think I’m still here? Not because you’re interesting or good company.”

He let go of her arm and grinned. “For my stunning good looks. Obviously.”

_“Sure,”_ she snorted. There was more truth to that than he could probably guess.

“Why did I not know this?” He was seriously puzzled. There wasn’t much else about her that he didn’t already know, and it clearly intrigued him. “We’ve been together for, what, two years? Almost two? And you never bothered to tell me?”

She’d be lying if she said it didn’t feel like a dagger had been plunged into her gut and twisted when he said _together._

“No. Why should I?”

“I – I don’t know. Because,” he answered.

“Smooth.”

“Well shit, Lydia. How am I supposed to know? I just thought it was some Nordic Housecarl warrior code or something. Honouring Talos for his heroic sacrifice.” He waved his arms in the air. “What?” he asked defensively as she started laughing at him. “I’m serious! I didn’t know you got paid.”

“Honouring Talos? _Really?_ ”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a Nord.”

“I know we’re more religious than you, but not _that_ much. It _is_ an honour to serve the Thane, of course, but how do you think I pay for my food and armour and weapons? And everything else I need?”

“I – ah,” he hesitated. “You got me.”

“Honestly. You are so dense sometimes.”

“I can’t – ”

And then the arrow pierced his chest.

He staggered back, winded and clearly taken by surprise, because he stood there staring at the iron shaft protruding from his body for a long moment. He looked puzzled and all Lydia could do was stare back at him with a nearly identical expression. Except hers held more terror than bewilderment.

And then it started.

The next few moments passed in a blur of magic-colours and screams and Nordic battlecries as the bandits rushed them from the trees. The sound of steel upon steel rang out in the wood, and the sickening sound of steel gliding through flesh and renting armour pierced through the reddening haze of Lydia’s rage. She’d lost sight of Cato and she couldn’t be sure if he was down or got himself out or was fighting just behind her.

A massive shaggy bandit with blue war paint on his ugly face sprinted from the side and she only just dodged him before sliding her greatsword in the space between his heavy cuirass and faulds. He grunted once, shuttered, and slid off her sword with a strong kick to the gut.

Movement after practiced movement she went through, methodically and almost monotonously. Side-step, block, parry, one-two upper cut, thrust, repeat. These bandits simply could not measure up to her years and years of training. It was almost too easy, and it might have been enjoyable had she not been frantically scanning the battleground for her Thane.

She impaled two more Nords, eviscerated a scrawny Argonian, and removed the head from the shoulders of a terrifying snarling Orc.

A Khajiit in similar armour to Cato shot an arrow at her with a simple hunting bow but she saw him and ducked. It pinged off the armour near her ribs and spun off into the trees.

And then another heavily-armoured Nord, just as muscled as the first few but much more handsome, took this opportunity to swing around a massive rock and bring his axe down with a deafeningly enraged roar. She twisted just in time to hold up her greatsword to block it and she did, but the man was too powerful and the force shoved her sword back to her chest, denting her armour, winding her, and sending her sprawling to the ground.

Damn. Times like this made her envy Cato’s lighter armour.

The Nord laughed as he stood over her and kicked her weapon to the side. “Hey there, beautiful,” he grinned greasily. It sent a shiver up her spine. Her eyes darted from side to side, and she could hear the sounds of battle all around her, but the man’s sweaty face and massive war axe had her complete attention.

Bending down on one knee and propping himself on his weapon, he leaned over and brushed a rogue strand of hair from her face. “It’s a pity I’ve got to kill ya. Ya look like a good fuck.”

She spit into his face.

He roared and stood up again and she kicked out with all the force her body could muster. She’d got him right between the legs. He cursed to all nine divines and she rolled ungracefully to the side, snatching her greatsword and struggling to stand in her heavy armour.

Heart pounding, blood roaring just beneath her flushed skin, she whipped around ready to face the Nord, but he wasn’t there.

She blinked once, twice, confused beyond reckoning, and then she noticed him lying near her feet, body scorched and blackened almost beyond recognition.

Her first thought was that a dragon had got him and somehow she’d avoided its flames.

The Khajiit archer near the trees snapped another arrow to his bow, aimed it right at her heart, smiled, and then collapsed with an arrow between his eyes in a cruel twist of fate.

“Lydia! You alright?”

She whipped her head around in the direction the arrow and voice had come and she smiled when she saw him there, up on a rock, picking the bandits off one by one with his beautiful Orcish bow. It was glinting unnaturally bright in the dull grey light, and she remembered he’d only recently enchanted it. The magic was pulsing a shimmering deep red and the unfortunate victims of its wrath suffered a searing flash of pain and were momentarily engulfed in magic-fire before the end. She couldn’t help thinking he’d chosen that enchantment because he was a dragon inside and he burned his victims, too.

_He is alright,_ she thought. _He is fine._

She grinned and leapt back into the fray with renewed vigour, laughing as she cut her foes down and as he showered them with the rainbow of arrows in the quiver on his back, as if he’d collected any ones he could find on his travels and stored them there. And he had.

They were one, Housecarl and Thane. They moved together so perfectly, so attentively attuned to the other’s movements anticipated before they were even carried out, and only because they’d fought every battle, physical and emotional, together thus far. She taunted, he struck. He lured, she thrust. She bashed and swung and jeered, he released arrow after arrow into their unwilling flesh. She prevented them from getting to close to him, and he stopped them from sliding a blade through her.

She glanced at him after the elf crumpled on her blade, and she froze.

He looked like a hero of old, like the legend from the stories she grew up with, and she couldn’t help but be in complete awe of him.

His perfectly lithe movements, his flow almost like molten iron. The way he pulled his arrows and nocked them so quickly it still fascinated her to this day. His brows furrowed in concentration, face etched in a permanent grin even as he took the bandit’s lives. His tanned skin glistening in the blazing light of the Altmer’s fireballs and lightning, illuminating every bead of sweat and every grain of dirt clinging to him. His perfectly toned body, every muscle in his arms and chest and stomach distinct and moving precisely just under his armour with the grace of a lifetime of combat. She saw him like this every day, but the heat of battle gave no free moments to really notice.

She admired him. She was jealous of him. She couldn’t stop watching him. But more than anything, she wanted to touch him, to feel the smooth rock of his skin that was always warmer than hers, whether because he had no ice in his blood like she did or because the fire of dragons burned within, she didn’t know.

The thought lanced through her like a hot blade and she faltered, causing the tiny Breton woman with a menacing horned helmet to smile as she found an opening in the warrior’s guard.

She lunged forward, her rusty short sword aimed straight at Lydia’s heart, and not a moment before she struck the Housecarl saw the fury and thrill of battle and death blaze in her eyes. And then, shock, and realisation, and finally nothing at all as she dropped to the ground in a ball of fire not a foot from Lydia’s feet with a glass arrow sticking out of her throat.

Lydia didn’t even realise she’d got the woman’s blood on her face until she felt it drip down her cheek. She wiped it away and the roar of her pounding blood rushing past her ears nearly deafened her as she realised.

_I almost died._

Nothing like a brush with death to make you feel alive.

She stood there staring down at the woman’s body until her pulse evened. She knew the battle was over because she heard her Thane give an exultant whoop from his perch on the rock.

“Yeah ha ha! Wooh! That’s what you get for trying to jump the Dragonborn, you assholes!” She heard the thud and roll as he landed back on the ground. “Lydia, that was great! You alright?”

“Yeah,” she answered, tearing her gaze from the Breton at last and scanning the battlefield.

They’d been pitted against no more than ten or twelve bandits from a poorly-trained ragtag scouting or recruit group, no doubt. It was rather large for such a band, but they were ill-equipped and sporting shoddy armour. Safety in numbers, they’d probably been told.

Their bodies littered the area and most had been blackened by Cato’s arrows beyond recognition. The eerie stillness that always accompanied the end of battle was punctuated only by the hissing of charred armour and Cato’s steps through the blood-stained mire. The acrid tang of magic mixed with the putrid smell of mud and blood and death-released shit, and Lydia had to cover her mouth to stop from retching. It was nothing short of a massacre.

No matter how often she’d killed and fought, this part never got easier. Once the thrill of battle wore off, and the bloody haze of the hunt and catch, the realisation sunk in. Cato had difficulty with it too. And then she remembered him.

“Are you alright?” she gasped, jogging to his side over smoking bodies and puddles of mud. He was bent over the Khajiit, rummaging through his pockets and travelling pack.

“Hm? Yeah, I’m fine.” He straightened up, completely free of blood and gore, and she could see that the arrow had been removed from his chest, leaving a tiny dark hole. He saw her staring at it and smiled. “I pulled it out. It didn’t go through, you know.”

She stared at him, eyes alternating between his chest and his face. “How -?”

He frowned. “You saw his bow.” He nodded quietly down to the Khajiit man, who Lydia only just realised couldn’t have been older than sixteen or seventeen. “It was bad. The string wasn’t tightened properly. Look. He had good aim, and given a better weapon he would have punched right through my armour. Whoever gave him this bow couldn’t afford a better one or didn’t care if he died. It was probably both.”

For any number of unfathomable reasons, Lydia’s heart suddenly ached for the boy. He was too young to die. He didn’t deserve this kind of death, or that kind of life. Where were his parents? Where did he live? What had happened in his past for him to want to be in this motley crew of outlaws? Didn’t anyone care about him? It was a gruesome sight with the arrow between his eyes and his once-beautiful fur blackened by magic-fire.

Lydia was a warrior and she had learned long ago from her mentors not to think when she fought. She never really understood that until now.

But there was nothing she could do. The Khajiit boy chose to be a bandit and he had attacked her Thane. He needed to die, and he had. It was the way things worked in Skyrim, and how they always would. You couldn’t stop to pity your enemies or feel sorry for the dead. You’d be among them if you did.

It was weak, and she knew that, so she straightened up and turned her back on the boy.

There wasn’t much to loot from the bodies. Almost no coin and only a few small health potions. Lydia didn’t mind picking through the corpses but she avoided the burnt ones.

“Hey Lydia, look at this.”

She turned around and saw Cato over the body of the Breton. He’d taken her horned helmet and was turning it around in his hands, inspecting it. “Think it’ll fit?”

“I dunno. Try it.”

He held it above his head and slowly lowered it. It slid over his face and she could see his eyes through the holes where she’d watched the light flicker from the woman’s. He smiled and let go.

“Perfect.”

Time seemed to slow. The iron helmet _did_ fit perfectly. He looked even more like the heroes of old. He looked menacing. Frightening. Supernatural, almost. Like this helmet was _made_ for him. She could tell he felt it.

Lydia frowned.

“Mmm. I don’t like it.”

“What?” he practically yelped. “This is _amazing!_ How can you not like it?”

She paced over to him and he eyed her incredulously.

“It’s not very practical, is it?”

“What do you mean –” She grabbed hold of one of the horns and shook it lightly.

“See? Someone could easily grab you and throw you down.”

He straightened the helmet. “Well, I’ll just have to kill them before they get to me, then.”

She sighed. “I don’t care. Let’s just go. I want to leave.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, peering around the battlefield with disdain. The rain had started again, washing the blood away from their hands and the field in red convergent swirls on its way to the northern sea. “Let’s go.”


	7. Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello everyone. I am back, and I would like to apologise. I won’t go on forever, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I did not have a very good summer, and I won’t drone on about it, but I just did not feel up to writing for most of it. I promised you I would return to finish this, and here I am.
> 
> So, because I’ve been out of practise all summer, this did take a while to revise, edit, and get out. It’s a little rough around the edges I think, but I’m happy enough with it.
> 
> I would like to thank SilentPony for the inspiration behind this chapter. He has been very supportive throughout this whole writing process and has been kind enough to send me some story ideas. I’ve loved them all, and this is one of them. So, thank you, my friend, and I am sincerely sorry I have not updated in quite a while. I hope this makes up for it.
> 
> Read on, enjoy, and I would greatly appreciate it if you left a review. They honestly help me so much, I doubt you even know. 
> 
> Thanks again, and one last time – sorry!

* * *

 

There were very few things that Lydia did not like.

Dragons, for one. All they seemed to do was burn and kill and destroy, and the internal damage they caused her Thane was worse than any physical destruction they could possibly throw at Skyrim.

Khajiits were another. Cato had taught her, slowly and reluctantly at first, that those other than Nords were not so bad. Most of the time. And she tried so hard not to judge and hate, but every Khajiit she’d ever met had never given her a reason to trust them.

And, if she were being brutally honest, she did not enjoy sweetrolls in the slightest. She’d probably be cast out of Skyrim if she ever told anybody, but there was just something about them that she did not like. Maybe they were too sweet, or maybe it was because she’d eaten so many as a kid. Whatever the reason, she’d found herself struggling for an excuse to turn one down more often than she’d like.

Oh, yes. And ghosts. Especially the gigantic, extremely irate kind that’d been guarding an underground hoard of treasure for the past thousand years and who does not take kindly to strangers endeavouring to steal that treasure.

Which was exactly what they were doing.

Her Thane always managed to get them tangled up in everything she hated.

* * *

“FUS!!” The ghost bellowed at Cato and caught him off guard, sending him flying off his feet and careening into the rock wall. Even from across the tomb Lydia could hear the rush of air that left his body as the impact winded him.

“Shi – shit – shi –” he wheezed as he struggled to stand and breathe at the same time. The ghost picked up its axe that Cato had kicked from its grip and started marching determinedly towards him.

Lydia shook off a mounting headache and limped after the ghost. She was favouring her left leg after the ghost had brought down his sword hard across her armoured knees.

Oh, yes. This ghost was duel-wielding a sword _and_ an axe. _Of course._

If truth be told, she was draining. Slowly at first, but it was catching up to her now. The Thane and his Housecarl had been grinding through their movements less vigorously and more sluggishly. The shouts of the ghost had been missing them more narrowly and the jabs of their swords were not as deep. And they’d been battling this thing for what felt like _hours._ They hadn’t, of course, but it didn’t matter either way. They were tired and bruised and battered all the same. And wet, because it had rained earlier. And cold, because this was Skyrim.

It was hard work trying to kill something that was already dead.

Could it get any worse?

Lydia lifted her greatsword into the air, ready to bring it down upon the creature, when it turned and growled and kicked her right in the stomach. It happened so fast that she hadn’t realised she was across the room until she noticed the ghost looked much smaller very quickly. And then the pain came, and she found herself in a pathetic crumpled heap of dirt and blood and bent armour.

Yes, apparently it _could._

It was the most painful thing she’d ever experienced. It felt like her insides had turned to liquid. Like they’d been set on fire. Like they’d been torn out, chewed up by a dragon, and spit back in. She coughed once, twice, and both times blood gurgled up and splattered on her armour. She had a roaring headache and it felt like her head was about to split.

She thought she heard her Thane call out to her, but it seemed so distant. Tinny, almost, like his voice was echoing through a canyon.

She shook her head but she couldn’t see. She blinked to rid the tears from her eyes. Was she crying?

No. Lydia _never_ cried.   

She blinked again with more fervour and she could finally see. The world swam, though, and she could scarcely comprehend what was going on around her. Her skull pounded with such ferocity that she felt like throwing up.

It was dark in the tomb, but through the flickering candlelight she could make out her Thane on his feet again, thrusting his black sword at the ghost, and only one thought managed to pierce through the reddening haze of her agony: _I must get up and help him._

She struggled to turn herself over, but her body protested with a vicious lance of searing pain through her midriff.

She would be lucky to get out of this without any broken bones.

Adrenaline is stronger than pain, though. Somehow, undoubtedly with the help of the Gods, she managed to pull herself up off the stone.

And, somehow, she managed to convince her leaden arms to heave up her Skyforge greatsword one last time and bring it down upon the ghost.

That didn’t kill it, though. No. _That_ honour was reserved for her Thane, of course. He _always_ finished off their enemies.

She wasn’t bitter about it. Of course not.

Well, maybe a little.

The spirit turned around to face her, sunken, hollow eyes boring into her own, and had Lydia been in her right mind she would have known with certainty that the ghost would kill her. She was so exhausted.

It’s such a simple word to describe how she felt, but sometimes that’s all that’s needed.

And then she saw the tip of a familiar black sword through the chest of the ghost, and the eyes, for the second time in a thousand years, flickered and went out. Like a candle in the wind.

The pale blue translucent body shimmered  for a moment in the air, and without a sound evaporated into the dark like a mist, leaving Cato sinking his ebony blade into nothing but the dank stale air of the tomb.

And it was gone.

Lydia fell to her knees, body too heavy and burdensome for her spirit to carry. Her greatsword slipped from her fingers and it rung out loud and long in the silence.

“Lydia?” Cato said, worry slipping into his tone. “Are you alright?”

But it sounded too far away again.

Now that the danger was gone, and her Thane was safe, her body decided to remind her of her recent injuries.

She turned from her Thane, some last shred of decency still there, and, clutching at her stomach, heaved and threw up onto the stone.

If she thought her insides were burning before, they were simply boiling over now.

When she was done, she spit out the foul taste in her mouth and sat down against the wall, holding her stomach. And had she not been a wretched mess of agony, she might have been a bit embarrassed.

“That – that really sucked.”

“You alright?” he repeated, setting his travelling pack down to kneel at her level. Even with her head still pounding and her eyes watering again, she could see her Thane trying to keep a level expression. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Yeah,” she sighed, and winced at the stab of pain it caused her. “I’m fine.”

“Really?” He gave her a pointed look. She knew he didn’t believe her.

She almost sighed again, but shook her head instead. It hurt, but it didn’t feel like being stuck with a blade through her ribs. “No. Feels like I got kicked in the stomach by a dragon.”

He smiled. “Not quite. A ghost, but still.”

“Still hurts like a bastard.”

He laughed a little and she couldn’t help but smile back. “I bet it does. Here.” He handed her a potion from seemingly nowhere, but she couldn’t care less. It hurt too much to think.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah.” He watched her drink it in a few long swigs and set it aside.

She sighed, and this time it didn’t hurt. Cato watched the colour come back to her pale face.

“Better?” he asked her.

A familiar warm numbness spread up from deep within her and crawled its way to her feet and hands and head. Her headache dwindled and she could breathe without the sharp pain.

She loved those potions.

She smiled up at him. He had a bruised jaw and some blood near his ear, but otherwise he looked to be fine. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he sighed, and all the tension fell off his tired shoulders. He squeezed her own shoulder and smiled, then let her go and sat down beside her.

Both of them rested there, in the near-dark and total silence. It was not eerie, like it had been when they first walked in, and Lydia vaguely wondered if it was because the ghost was dead.

Or gone. You can’t really kill a ghost, she supposed.

There were grains of sand from the dusty tomb and the still-sharp tang of vomit in her mouth, so Lydia spit again. She couldn’t wait to get home and rinse it out.

Cato shifted beside her and sighed deep and long. “You know, one of these days something’s going to kill us. For good, I mean.”

She snorted. “Yeah. Can’t go this long without something going wrong, I guess.”

“I’m just surprised it hasn’t happened already.”

“Yeah.” She thought for a moment, then smiled. “Except for that time in the Dwemer ruins.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And that time you almost got eaten by a sabre tooth.”

“Yeah.”

“And all those dragon fights. And when we were chased by that bear.”

“Mhm.”

“And when that bandit hit you with his axe. Remember that?”

“ _Yes…_ ”

“And that time you fell in the ocean and almost froze to death?”

“ _Alright_ , I get it.”

“I pulled you out, you know.”

He sighed again. “I know.” He turned his head to look at her and a reluctant smile spread across his tired face. “Thanks.”

And she knew he meant it.

For that, and for everything.

Now that she hurt a little less, she could feel the tiredness pressing upon her almost like a weight. She smiled and closed her eyes as she leaned her head back against the wall.

“Hey,” her Thane whispered in her ear after a long moment. She felt his hand on her knee, shaking her softly. “Don’t fall asleep.”

She knew you weren’t supposed to close your eyes after a hard injury, because there was always a chance you wouldn’t wake up. But she was just so exhausted.

“Mm,” she grumbled, not listening. “I’m tired.”

“I know,” he laughed softly. “You can sleep. Soon. I’m going to get you out of here.”

She peered at him under heavy lids. “You’re going to carry me?”

“Ha! No. Do I look like a horse?”

She bit back a surprisingly strong urge to a retort that would probably earn her pack mule privileges for the rest of her life.

Chivalry was _so_ dead.

“I want to show you something, though,” he said with a smile.

She reluctantly opened her eyes.

He leaned over and picked up the sword and the axe that had been wielded by the ghost. They scratched dully on the stone floor and it echoed in the silence.

Funny, she thought, but she hadn’t noticed them before now. He must have retrieved them while she was… ah, _sick._

“Here. Look at these.” He handed her the axe and she took it. “They’re pretty old, but they look decent enough. What do you think we could get for them?”

The weapon was surprisingly light in her hands, but it was cold. Almost like touching a rock in the winter.

Her heart dropped like a stone in her chest.

Because from the chipped, roughly hewn blade patterned with dragons down to the weathered, crooked handle wrapped in ancient leather, she recognised it.

“I – my Thane, l –”

“Lydia, it’s _Cato_ ,” he said offhandedly with slight irritation. “Honestly, I thought we’d –”

But she didn’t hear him. She shot to her feat in the span of a heartbeat, hands and breath shaking.

Cato followed suit not a second later. The sword, the twin of the axe, was gripped in his hand and he tensed as if prepared for battle. He darted his eyes around, looking for another ghost or Draugr or some other foul thing that lurked in tombs like this.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I – here.” She pushed the axe into his arms and he stepped back, startled. And maybe a bit annoyed.

“Lydia, what are you doing? What is it?”

She stood there, still trembling from head to foot.

Cato looked into her face and saw fear in her eyes. _Real_ fear. It was a look his friend did not often wear, and, if he were honest, something he admired about her. She could take on a frost troll or an entire pack of wolves herself and not even falter once. Whether it was true bravery or ignorance of danger or something else, he didn’t know. But it was something he’d only seen in few people, and he was glad she was with him. More than she’d probably ever know.

But there was something else there, too. A recognition of sorts, and bewilderment, to say the least. He knew that look. It haunted his dreams sometimes. He’d seen it on the faces of every Stormcloak, Imperial, and townsfolk that day in Helgen all those years ago.

And then he understood.

“You’ve seen it before.”

She nodded. She swallowed hard.

“Yes. Only in stories, though. I never thought…” she trailed off, unable to finish. She had no words.

A moment passed. Maybe ten. She didn’t know.

It was so _quiet_ in the tomb, though.

“Tell me.”

She opened her mouth dumbly, then shut it again. She swallowed. Where could she possibly begin? Her mind was a violent, swirling storm of emotions and thoughts. She felt like laughing exuberantly. She wanted to cry wildly.

Instead she just stood there like a fool.

“Lydia, tell me. Please.”

She opened her mouth again and, to her surprise, her voice came out and it sounded strong. Confident. The exact opposite of what was going on inside her.

“These weapons. They belonged to Kvenel. Have you –” she swallowed again. “Have you heard of him?”

“No.”

She figured as much.

“He was a hero in the days of old. A Tongue. Kvenel the Tongue. And their leader, later on. The legends speak of him as a great warrior that rode on the backs of dragons and fought thousands of elves. He saved Skyrim and her people more times than I can count. He had a sword and an axe that looked just like these. Okin and Eduj, they are. My – my brother used to read me his story when I was a child. It was one of my favourites.”

She glanced down to the weapons her Thane was holding. “That’s all it is, though, a legend. A story…”

Cato smiled. “Well, as a great man once told me, ‘legends don’t burn down villages’. Or Shout you across the room, I guess.”

“Yeah…”

Her stomach turned violently. She felt like throwing up again.

He took a step closer to her and put a hand on her arm.

“Hey. You ok?” he asked softly, worry burning in his eyes.

“Yes, I’m fine. I just never thought…”

“Never thought you’d see them? Have your whole world turned upside down by the revelation that something you once took as a story is real?”

  1. Just like the dragons.



She looked into his eyes, bright and glistening and playful, and she knew he understood.

He squeezed her arm and smiled.

Sometimes her Thane could be an ass. She would be the first to tell you that. Sometimes he would lie and cheat and steal. Sometimes he was blunt and others he was cunning. But it never failed to surprise her how, no matter what he said or how he said it, he always seemed to understand. Even without her saying anything.

And, if she were honest, it was something she admired about him. She was never good with words, especially when compared to her Thane, but sometimes they weren’t needed. She knew that and so did he. Whether it was his innate ability to pick things up or a true appreciation for the silent moments or something else, she didn’t know. But it was something she’d only seen in few people, and she was glad she was with him. More than he’d probably ever know.

“These are powerful weapons, my Thane. Kvenel of Old once wielded them with pride. May you carry them the same into battle. Long may they serve the new Dragonborn.”

She bent over as far as her aching stomach allowed and bowed to him. Her knees still hurt far too much to actually kneel on the cold stone, but it was as good as she could do.

“Open your hands.”

“What-?” She straightened up, a little painfully, and eyed him suspiciously.

Cato’s expression was unreadable. If anything, it frightened her a little. He was normally smiling.

“Open them.”

Lydia didn’t know what to say. So she didn’t say anything.

What was he up to?

“Lydia, don’t make me order you.” He rolled his eyes and she could tell he was trying hard not to get annoyed.

And then she understood.

Her heart leapt in her chest again and, for the third time in such a short period, she felt like throwing up.

“My Thane…” The blood roared in her ears despite the absolute silence of the tomb. It was almost deafening.

“Open them,” he said more harshly.

She obeyed.

He smiled again, any and all trace of irritation wiped clean, and reached out to place the ancient, weathered axe in her trembling hands.

“Here. I want you to have it.”

She stared down at the weapon. A hot uneasiness prickled across her skin.

“I – I can’t.” She was shaking from head to foot now. In anxiety, in excitement, in tiredness, she didn’t know. Maybe all three.

“Lydia, I’m giving it to you. Please take it.”

“No.”

How could she? How could _he?_

“Lydia, _take it._ ”

“ _No!_ ” she barked at him, and surprise flickered like the candlelight across his dark face, only for instant, then it turned to irritation.

“Why not?” He was getting annoyed again, his eyebrows creased and his arms crossed.

“These are – I can’t just – it belongs in the hands of a Dragonborn. Of someone worthy. I can’t – ”

“Lydia,” he said suddenly, very softly and very close. She almost flinched in surprise, but her body was probably too exhausted for any more surprises.

Then he reached out and took a hold of her hand, closing her fingers around the handle.

“I can’t think of anyone more worthy than you,” he said softly. “Honestly. The spirits would want such a weapon in the hands of a true daughter of Skyrim. Long may it serve Lydia Battle-Born.”

He smiled again, a huge, beaming smile that showed his missing tooth, and squeezed her hand. It was rough and sweaty and grimy from their battle, but it was warm and he touched her so gently she was hardly sure he was touching her at all. She even looked down to make sure.

And he was, his warmer, darker skin contrasting against her own. The hand was so familiar to her now that she could undoubtedly trace every scar with her eyes closed and tell you the story behind them. His hands, though scarred and burned by dragon-fire and hardships all his years, were a monument to his past. A reminder of sorts. A mark of where he had been and the ruggedness of his life.

A different sort of numbness spread through her at his touch. One that she’d never felt before. Not from her family, not from her friends. It was warm, a smouldering fire almost, kindling from her fingers and spreading slowly to her heart.

It was the touch of someone who cares.

Her cheeks burned fiery red against her pale Nordic skin and she couldn’t find the right words to say. So she didn’t say anything. She simply smiled back.

Maybe it wasn’t needed.

Cato let go of her hand and left her there to shoulder his pack. He picked up her own and held it out to her, smiling.

“C’mon. What do you say we go find something to kill us? Go on one last great adventure?”

She smiled. There was nothing more in all of Skyrim she’d rather do.

So she took her pack, sheathed her new weapon, and followed him out of the dark on to another adventure.


	8. Oblivious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey everyone! Once again, sorry for such a long wait, but I think it’s worth it and I hope you’ll be pleasantly surprised.
> 
> Because LOOK AT THAT WORD COUNT, PEOPLE. Seriously! 14, 657 words to be exact. Holy Jesus, this is the motherload of chapters! The chapter to end all chapters! One chapter to rule them all! Honestly, this is more than double the length of my previous longest chapter of nearly 7,000 words.
> 
> So, as such, it took a while to get out. And, because it is so long and I got tired of rereading it, there may be some slight inconsistencies in places, or the pacing may change, or things may seem out of place a bit. I hope not, but we’ll see. If you notice anything odd, please tell me.
> 
> So, the time you’ve all been waiting for has come. I got the feeling (and a few direct messages) that you are becoming a bit impatient in the romance pacing. So, here you go. Finally. I’ll warn you, though, that I hate rushing things, so don’t expect too much before going in. Expect a little, though. 
> 
> This chapter places us right in the centre of things, with no real order or pacing or anything, but I hope it doesn’t drag on. I really tried to practice my dialogue here, so I hope you enjoy it. I felt that there was a bit too much fighting recently, and not enough other characters, so, by the advice of wise old Angel of Eternity (a reviewer on FF.net) I could only oblige. 
> 
> Anyways, as always, enjoy, and I’d really appreciate it if you let me know what you think. Good, bad, it doesn’t matter. I’m all ears. Thanks for all your support, and I truly hope this chapter does you justice.

* * *

 

“Come on!”

“Come on, Cato!”

“Yeah! Scared he’ll break your arm?”

Another round of uproarious laughter and shouting and jeering  and table-pounding went around the long table and echoed up into the high wooden ceiling of Jorrvaskr as the Companions goaded Lydia’s Thane. _Again._ Not for the first time that night.

She couldn’t really complain, though. And it wasn’t really that bad. In fact, if she were being honest, she was actually having a good time.

It wasn’t very often she got to relax and unwind. Being Housecarl to the Dragonborn didn’t really allow her that luxury. But when she did, it was often in the safety and relative quiet of Breezehome (she would say _relative_ because having Cato around never really meant it was quiet).

And it was no secret that she was not one for gatherings. Or people in general.

It was even less often that she ever got invited to things like this.

“I _told_ you guys already, I can’t –”

“Can’t what? Come on, grow a set!”

“Haha! Milk-drinker!”

“Yeah, if you’re too scared, Cato, just tell us! It’s alright! We’ll accept your defeat.”

Lydia’s Thane rolled his eyes as someone pounded his shoulder playfully, but he smiled nonetheless. She knew he loved these men and women despite all this.

“I told you, I’m _not_ going to arm wrestle you, Farkas! This one’s useless and I need this one tomorrow!” Cato laughed as he held up his right arm then left arm in succession. “You’ll probably break it, knowing you.”

“Hey, that was an accident!” Farkas growled beside him, mouth full of some sort of roasted meat. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and swallowed. “Athis’s face just happened to be where my fist was at the time.”

“Unfortunate timing, yes,” the elf added bitterly from his chair across the burning hearth as he rubbed at his bent nose absentmindedly. Ria patted his back somewhat sympathetically.

“Oh, it doesn’t look that bad, Athis. If anything, it makes you look better.”

Another rowdy uproar of laughter, hunks of meat and mugs of ale raised high into the hot hazy air. If Athis’ Dunmer eyes weren’t already a fiery red, Lydia would have been certain they were on fire and burning a hole through the back of Ria’s head.

“Hey, hold on! What’s wrong with your arm?” Skjor, the older, calmer man (compared to the rest), shouted over the howls and hollers. The din quieted for a moment.

“Yeah,” Torvar added smoothly, slurring his words a little. “Never did ask you about that. You just came in here one day cryin’ ‘bout something gone wrong with your arm.”

Cato glanced sideways at the clearly plastered man with chunks of food tangled in his wiry blonde beard. He didn’t hide a disgusted face, and Lydia couldn’t help but smile. “I wasn’t crying, Torvar, but thanks.”

Torvar did not notice the look, it seemed, for he bit into a soggy lump of mutton. “I dunno. Seemed to me like you was cryin’.”

Cato ignored him and his eating habits this time. “Alright,” he spoke to the room, all eyes and ears on him now, the only other sound the crackling of the hearthfire. “This is a long story so if anyone needs to take a piss, do it now.”

No one moved from their spot. Cato smiled.

“Ok. So, this happened maybe – what, a few months, half a year ago? Anyways. Messed it up pretty bad back in those Dwemer ruins. Cha – Ncha - Nchaun zel? I don’t remember.”

Lydia smiled into her mug from across the hall as Cato told the story. His Cyrodiilic accent grew thicker, for some reason, whenever he’d been drinking, and he’d grow more articulate and use his hands wildly when he spoke. It was entertaining.

And she would be lying if she said it didn’t make him sound… _alluring_ , to put it nicely.

“So, it was just me and Lydia down there looking for some… man, I guess. I forget his name now, but he’d left behind a journal and said something about a treasure. Anyways, a few days had gone by, when we come across a _huuuge_ Centurion. I’m not lying, guys, it was gigantic. It –”

“That’s what they _all_ say,” Ria whispered to Torvar seated next to her, who nodded enthusiastically. But because the hall was unusually quiet, everyone heard them, and a murmur of chuckles swept across the hall.

“Ria,” Cato barked, glaring at her. The smaller woman bolted up straight at being caught. “What the fuck? What did I just say?”

“Something about pissing, I think.”

“ _Ha!_ ” Torvar barked, banging a greasy fist on the table.

“I _said_ don’t interrupt me. I hate that.”

“Hey, watch it, _pup_.” Vilkas, who had been quiet most of the night, growled from his seat in his thick Nord accent in the shadows, cradling a small mug of ale. The dark warpaint around his eyes made him seem older than he really was and in need of a good night’s sleep. “She’s been here longer than you. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Alright,” Cato waved him off, shaking his head in irritation. “If you don’t want to hear the story – ”

“Ah, come on, Vitellas, pull your smalls out of your ass crack. He was only jokin’, ya know. Weren’t ya, Vilky?” Torvar added easily with a grin like a schoolchild testing his teacher. 

“Do not call me that,” Vilkas growled from the dark.

Lydia looked up from her mug at the mention of Cato’s surname. It was strange to hear it being used in a place like this. She typically only heard it in courts or when it was mispronounced by couriers. And Cato hated it.

Vitellas wasn’t such a bad name, really. If she was honest, she sort of liked it. It was indisputably Cyrodiilic and she’d never heard it before. But Cato still insisted on being called Cato. Or Dragonborn. It was never _Vitellas._ Or Thane, actually.

He was sort of picky when it came to nomenclature.

Cato gave one final glare at a cackling Torvar and a brooding Vilkas before shrugging indifferently.

“Bastard swung at me and got me with its hammer, right here.” He pulled up the sleeve of his casual chemise to reveal to everyone a large twisted knot of scars near his right shoulder, a ghostly swirl of white against his darker skin.

Torvar hushed his jesting and squinted forward to see better. An uneasy but commending murmur ran throughout the hall as all eyes, even Lydia’s, fell one by one upon the mark he bore.

She looked away.

She didn’t like to think about that.

“Ouch,” Torvar turned his nose up, but reached across the table, and an unimpressed Skjor, to touch it with a finger. “Does it still hurt?”

“No, not really. But poking at it doesn’t help,” Cato glared up at him, smoothing down his shirt sleeve. Torvar grumbled something not wholly respectable in such a Holy city as Whiterun and returned to his seat, much to Skjor’s satisfaction.

Cato leaned back in his chair, scowl gone, grabbing his small blue cup of mead from the table first. “Bastard almost had me in. Lydia got me out, though. Remember that?” He called to her from across the table.

Lydia shivered. She remembered.

Many of her Thane’s friends looked over to her, and she smiled self-consciously. This part of the room had been mostly deserted as the night wore on and the Companions flocked around their Shield-Sibling.

She couldn’t blame them, really. He had not been here in so long and so they were, understandably, thrilled to see him.

The two of them had showed up at dusk not a few hours past in surprise, Cato smiling ear to ear.

_“You’ll like them,”_ he had promised. _“They’re a bunch of good old Nords.”_

_“And?”_ she’d asked, half skeptical, half in jest.

_“And they like the things you do. Trust me,”_ he’d smiled, _“This will be fun.”_

And Farkas had almost knocked him down as he barreled into him, not five seconds after he pushed open the great wooden doors of Jorrvaskr.

“Always the hero, eh?” Torvar snickered, almost haughtily, if Lydia hadn’t known better.

“Yeah, never mind this one!” Skjor clapped Cato on the back rather hard, causing him to choke on his mouthful of mead. “Sounds to me like Lydia here is the Dragonborn! Always pulling your sorry traitorous ass out of jams and corners. Maybe _you_ should take a turn at Housecarl, Vitellas.”

Cato recovered from his episode and a scowl grew on his face, no doubt ready to rebuke Skjor’s choice of names, when Farkas’ deep voice broke through the laughter.

“What’s a Century?”

“You mean Centurion, brother?” Vilkas rolled his eyes at his brother’s seemingly stupid question before answering himself. “You _should_ know. We were just discussing them last week.”

Farkas swallowed his mouthful of ale before pointing a lazy finger to his brother. “Just tell me, Vilkas, or I’ll break _your_ nose, too.”

Vilkas crossed his arms and scowled. Lydia was beginning to think he did that a lot. “It’s a giant Dwarven machine. Looks almost like a man, but made of metals. It’s steam-powered, too. They were used to guard treasure and valuables back when the Dwemer lived here.” He turned to give Cato an accusatory look. “What were you _really_ doing down there, anyway?”

“Yes!” Farkas bellowed, slamming his mug down on the table. “Sounds like a good story! Finish it!”

“I pretty much just _did_ , Farkas. There’s not much to it.”

The man’s smile faded. “What? You can’t be serious.”

“I’m afraid I am.”

“A giant dwarf metal-man and a underground ruin and almost getting your arm hacked off? That’s _all_ there is?”

Cato shrugged behind his mug. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“No swordfights? No ghosts? No killing? No head-bashing?”

“Is that all you care about?” Vilkas guffawed, but his brother ignored him.

Cato shook his head, a little smile on his face, and set his mug down before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Farkas narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

Cato shrugged again, picking at the food on his plate.

“Fine. _Don’t_ tell me. I don’t care.” The brute of a man crossed his thick muscled arms like a child and Lydia could tell, even from here, that Cato was having trouble concealing a smile. “Keep whatever it is you’re hiding behind that smug _Imperialness_ of yours. Besides,” he added with a sudden wide, deviant smile, “That’s a woman’s scar. You want to see a _man’s_ scar?”

He stood up, wooden chair scraping against the cold stone floor and, with a smile that would make a Khajiit envious, grabbed hold of the rungs of his pants and started to yank them down.

Now Lydia was no stranger to loud sounds. She’d been exposed to them nearly her whole life. She’d heard stone buildings crumble to the ground, had stood next to a thundering waterfall at night, and had been much too close to the mighty roar of an enraged dragon once or twice.

But never, _never_ could she have prepared herself for the din that erupted next.

The hall essentially _exploded_ with sound as an absolutely wild, laughing protest split the hazy, smoke-ridden air. Lydia jumped in surprise and even, at one point, covered her ears.

Ria shielded her eyes and Torvar made uncannily realistic gagging sounds and Skjor cried “ _No! No! For the love of Talos, NO!_ ” and Vilkas turned away, clearly mortified at his brother’s behaviour. Then Njada Stonearm, a great bear of a Nord woman, literally leapt across the table, scattering plates and ale and hunks of meat and bread into everyone’s laps to tackle Farkas to the floor in a loud, thunderous crash before he could emotionally scar every soul in Jorrvaskr that night.

“Gods, woman, get off me!” Farkas’ voice came muffled from behind where Athis and Ria sat, hidden from Lydia’s sight, and she couldn’t help it. She laughed along with them.

“A _woman’s scar_ , Farkas?” Njada scolded through the absolutely deafening howls and shrieks of laughter and jeers as she straightened up and arose from behind the table, though Farkas remained invisible. Lydia suspected she had him pinned under her boot. “The fuck? Really?! Look at this!” She lifted up the side of her own casual chemise to reveal a long, jagged scar running from her hip and disappearing somewhere under her shirt near her armpit. “What do you call _that?_ ”

“Alright, alright, I get it!” he growled, and Njada let her shirt fall back down. “Now let me up!”

“Yes, you better let him up, Njada. He probably dented the floor with his head.” Njada smiled at Vilkas’ comment and stepped off his brother, brushing off her shirt. She made her way back to her seat with applauds and back pats by her brothers- and sisters-in-arms.

Farkas straightened up and brushed himself off as well, pride wounded and a dark scowl on his usually smiling face.

Vilkas waited until the clamour subsided somewhat and his shield-siblings had stopped gasping for air. “That was not so smart, brother. You know Njada is the toughest one here.”

“There’s a reason they call me Stonearm, you know!”

“Well, maybe not. We still haven’t had our tiebreaker brawl yet,” Skjor interjected from across the table, pouring himself yet another ale. “I’m getting worried now, though. If you can take down The Bear like that, maybe I should be practicing a bit more.”

Njada waved an impressively muscled arm to the man, brushing him off. “Nah, you’ll be fine, Skjor.  It wasn’t that hard. He’s just a big baby.”

“He may be a bit tougher than one, but he’s yet to progress past the mental stage,” Vilkas scoffed, eyeing his brother with jest and maybe a little bit of affection. Just a little, though.

“I don’t care. You guys are not very nice,” the big man sulked, rubbing at his shoulder and moving away from them. Lydia could see, even from here and in the flickering firelight, a distinct dusty boot mark on his crumpled shirt.

“Aw, come now, shield-brother! It was only in jest!”

“Vilkas is just jealous of your strength.”

“Yeah, I’m sure _he_ can’t lift a giant boulder over his head like you can!”

“Did it drop on his head? Is that what happened?”

“Stop sulking, ya snowback!”

“That’s _not_ helping, Torvar.”

Farkas walked around the table, ignoring the jabs and laughs of his friends, and made his way to the significantly less crowded area to sit in the empty chair beside Lydia. It was Cato’s, at first, but he’d been dragged around the table so many times that he probably felt like he was playing the children’s game of musical chairs.

Lydia smiled at him politely, but he didn’t notice. He grabbed an empty mug and poured himself a large amount of ale, face still twisted into a scowl. She watched him down the whole thing in one long draught, belch rather loudly, and pour himself another.

“Um. Hello,” she smiled timidly, unsure how to approach him. He smelled like ale and sweat and leather and wet dog, for some reason. Not much, but it was enough to make her crinkle her nose. “I’m Lydia.” She held out her hand.

“Yeah. I know,” he said gruffly, staring down at the bottom of his mug. “Cato introduced you earlier.”

Lydia let her hand fall lamely.

_Oh. Right._ Of _course_ he did.

She was much too awkward for these kind of things.

“Name’s Farkas.”

Lydia smiled in acknowledgement before realising he wasn’t looking and couldn’t possibly know that she’d heard him.

Barely thirty seconds into the conversation and she already felt like melting into the floor.

“So,” Farkas said after an embarrassingly long moment, “You’re Salty’s Housecarl, then.”

_Salty?_   

“I-” she was interrupted by a burst of shouts and table-pounding coming from the table across the hearth. She looked up to see Njada and Skjor arm-wrestling, apparently engaged in a precursor to their tie-breaker brawl. It looked to be evenly matched, though Skjor’s face was red and the veins in his arm were popping. The two Companions had their own cheering sections.

Cato was shaking his head, smiling.

She was glad he was enjoying himself, though she wished he’d come back over and talk to her. She was never good with strangers.

“I am,” she repeated, turning back to Farkas.

“And how’s that going for ya?” he asked, pouring himself yet another ale.

“It is an honour to serve the Thane,” she answered promptly, playing idly with her half-empty mug.

“No, no, I mean, what’s it _really_ like?”

Lydia gave him a perplexed look. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said slowly.

He set his mug down and sat back in the chair to look at her.

“You know, travelling with the Dragonborn. Must be fun, getting to fight dragons and go all over Skyrim.”

“Well, I guess.”

“You guess?” he laughed in his deep voice, losing the scowl and grinning widely once again. “I can’t think of anything better! Being out there with him in the wild, killing bandits and bears and living outside.”

Lydia turned her nose up and scoffed. “The sleeping outside one isn’t the greatest, I’ll tell you that. A whole month of tossing and turning over cold rocks and roots really gets to you.”

“Ah, that doesn’t seem too bad,” he waved off. “Still, I think it’d be worth it, getting to see the province like that.” He took another long swig of ale. “Have you been all over Skyrim?”

Lydia smiled. “Yes. Almost.”

“Almost?”

“Every Hold, at least.”

“Ah. I see.”

Lydia let the conversation waver off as she poked at the food still on her plate. A lump of cold greasy salt pork, a half loaf of rye, a few grilled leeks, and a wedge of old nippy goat cheese. A classic Nordic meal. She’d already prepared dinner back at Breezehome before Cato’s spontaneous decision to visit his friends at Jorrvaskr, a nice batch of beef stew and a bottle of spiced wine, so she was already full. A Nord never turns down food, though, Cato had said to her earlier. She smiled as she bit into a crunchy leek.

She took a moment to glance up from her plate to him and found he was looking at her already from where he was sitting. The arm wrestling was at its peak, and his friends were scrambling and shouting and pushing all around him, but still, he looked at her.

And maybe it was only the alcohol or the hazy air, but that look was intense, piercing almost. It only lasted a second, maybe less, before it was gone with the flicker of a candle flame and he smiled apologetically, knowing he’d been caught.

Lydia looked down at her plate again, cheeks burning.

“So, what Salty was saying earlier, about the Century? Was that true?” Farkas asked with a mouthful of food. Lydia braved another fleeting look across the hall, but he was smiling and laughing at the wrestling now. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

_Centurion?_ she almost corrected, turning to face him, but she did not quite feel like getting a fist to the face tonight. Not by this hulking brute of a man, anyway.

“Yes, it’s true.”

“Did he really mess up his arm that bad?”

She snickered. “Yes. I wasn’t sure he’d be able to use it again, after what happened. He almost died, you know,” she added sombrely.

“Him? _Die?!_ Ha!” Farkas slammed a fist down onto the table, startling Lydia and spilling someone else’s ale. It pooled in a groove on the table and dripped over the side. He paid no attention to it. “That man’s been up against giants and trolls and dragons and hardly even batted an eye. It’ll take more than some Dwarf Century’s hammer to take _that_ man down!” He laughed again and took another long swig of ale. “Though I guess the Gods have a plan for him, being Dragonborn and all. They wouldn’t have chosen him if he was going to slip and break his neck on some ice.”

Lydia had never thought about it before, but she supposed the man was right. And oddly, it made her feel a bit better.

“You know something? I was there when he killed his first dragon. When he took its soul. It was…” he shook his head slowly for a moment. “ _Amazing._ ”

“Really? You were there?” Lydia’s interest had piqued and she leaned closer to Farkas, anticipating his tale.

The big man straightened up and smiled, flexing his hands. He was clearly ready to tell a story, and Lydia smiled at his childlike eagerness.

“Yes. He asked me to come with him to some old barrow down near Riverwood. Said something about a mage and some stone map or something. Didn’t understand half of what he said, but I had nothing to do and Vilkas was in a bad mood so I said _why not?_ _Could do with a bit of head-smashing._ _Won’t be gone long, either._ Didn’t think Kodlak would mind,” Farkas shrugged, taking another drink. “So, I went with him. Not much there, just some bandits and Draugr. And one really mean-looking one, too. The stone-thing was there, so he grabbed it and we made our way back here. We’d just got back from bringing it to the mage up in Dragonsreach when that elf comes running in. And you know what she says?”

Yes, Lydia remembered. She doubted she’d ever forget. She was there that day.

“ _Dragon! By the Watchtower!_ And if you know anything about Salty, which I’m sure you do, then you know he couldn’t be left behind. He dragged me out there to show it to me. I’d been rattling him, see, cause I met him running up to the city shouting _dragon!_ himself. Well, not shouting, I guess, but no one really believed him. They were only stories, after all. Everyone thought he was raving mad. Vilkas, mostly, and Aela, but I didn’t really care. Dragons would be fun to fight, so I wanted them back, in a sense.”

Farkas stopped to take another drink and catch his breath. Lydia waited and watched him smile into the bottom of his mug.

“But it’s funny, making fun of Salty. Don’t know why, it just is. He’s got good humour, so it’s not like poking at Vilkas or Athis. _That’s_ dangerous. Don’t want to get on their bad sides, them. Vilkas wouldn’t talk to me for a whole month after he found his smallclothes strung up in the training yard. A whole month! And I didn’t even do it! And Athis – ah, wait. Uh…” he stopped, blinking once. “Where was I?”

“The dragon by the Western Watchtower,” she smiled, amused by his ramblings.

“Yes! Anyways, we went out there but _all_ the guards were gone. Or dead. No one was there. It was _spooky_.” Farkas injected a grave suspenseful undertone to his voice, and Lydia realised that he really _did_ enjoy stories.

Poor man. She’d have to remember to tell him the Centurion one in full someday.

“So we’re searching around the tower, and there’s fire and the place is falling down, when suddenly we hear this roar from the south. It was the dragon! It came up out of the mountains and flew over us,” he gestured, pretending his hand was a flying dragon. “I could barely believe my eyes! That Imperial bastard _had_ been right! I knew he’d never let me forget it, either. And he hasn’t.”

He smiled and looked across the hearth to his friend. The arm wrestling had ended sometime during Farkas’ story, though Lydia hadn’t noticed who’d won. Cato had his face stuffed with food, shoving meat and bread and whatever else had been on the table, in some sort of crude race with a few others. Vilkas stood back in the shadows, arms crossed in severe disapproval.

Cato coughed once, cheeks bulging with food, before he shook his head and waved a _no_ with his hands.

“Come on, Imperial! You can do it!” Njada shouted behind him, all smiles. Lydia could only guess that she’d won the wrestling match.

“Yeah, aren’t you supposed to have big mouths?” Athis added.

Cato swallowed hard, almost choking again, and washed it down quickly with mouthful of mead.

“What does that even mean? Do _you_ even know what you mean?” he choked out, coughing as Njada slapped his back a few times.

Athis shrugged. “You know, all your wordy politics and laws. And all your big speeches. That makes sense, right?”

“I think you’ve been drinking too much.”

“Could be good for _other_ things, too,” Torvar added smoothly.

A roar of laughter rose up again, causing Ria to choke and spit an unholy, unrecognisable wad food onto the table.

Skjor held up his arms in victory, finished chewing his food, and shouted “Yes! I am the champion!”

“So crude, Torvar,” Cato smiled, wiping food from his face with his hands.

He ignored him. “Well, not for _him_ , at least. Good for the women, maybe,” Torvar smiled, glancing at Ria. She gave him a severe glare behind her mug of ale. “ _Unless_ ,” he continued, “our young Cato here has something he wants to share with us…?”

Cato’s cheeks went red, hardly noticeable on his darker skin, but Lydia had been around him enough to know when it happened. He smiled nonetheless. “Ah, you got me! Foiled again. Better watch out though, Torvar, just in case. Sleep with your doors locked.” Cato raised a suggestive eyebrow at him and another bought of laughter and fist-pounding exploded in the hall.

“I’d be more worried he’d _steal_ from you in the night!” Farkas shouted across the hearth, causing Lydia to jump and managing to catch everyone’s attention since he was exiled here. “Right, Vilkas?”

Vilkas’ scowl grew even darker as he was laughed at and goaded by the others.

“Learned his lesson, though! Keeps his doors _and_ his smallclothes drawer locked now. I tried,” Cato smirked up at the other twin.

A dangerous cloud of anger formed on Vilkas’ face. “If I ever catch you sneaking into my room again, I’ll put my fist in your face!”

Farkas’ booming laughter resounded beside Lydia, and she smiled wide. “Wait. It was Cato? _Cato_ hung up his smallclothes in the courtyard?”

“Yeah!” he laughed, pounding a thick fist on the table. The cutlery clanged around violently and Lydia had to grab her fork before it fell off the side. “Vilkas called him a ham-fisted troll one day in the training yard and that got him mad, I guess. So he snuck into his room that night and took his smallclothes. Wanted to prove him wrong.”

Lydia laughed loud and long. She laughed freely, something she didn’t do too often, and it felt good. Her middle still ached from being kicked by the ghost not a fortnight ago, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t help it.

“He never told me that story,” she smiled after a moment, breathless.

“Yeah. We had some fun when he was here! He’s the only one who likes that sort of thing.” Farkas’ tone went suddenly sombre and he looked down at his empty cup, idly playing with it.

“He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?” Lydia asked quietly after a moment, not sure of his reaction.

Farkas let another rolling laughter from the far side die down before he answered.

“Yeah. I guess he does.” He stared at his mug, shoulders slumped, and Lydia thought he looked like a sad puppy. A big, hulking war brute of a puppy, but one nonetheless. “You know, Skjor says I have the strength of Ysgramor and my brother has his smarts. He teases me about it, and maybe that’s true. I don’t know. And I know everyone thinks it. But Salty, he… _doesn’t._ Well, maybe he does, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t talk to me like I’m some dumb schoolchild. And we have fun. I miss that. I miss _him_ ,” he added. He glanced across the table to his friend again, smiling sadly. “He doesn’t come around much anymore.”

Lydia didn’t know what to say. Her heart ached for the man, and if she had known him better, maybe she would have tried to comfort him.

“I’m sorry, Farkas. I didn’t know.”

“Ah. Don’t be,” he waved her off. “And don’t mind me. I just get lonely here sometimes.” A small smile crept its way up onto his face. “It’s good when he’s here. That’s all I can ask for, really. You’re lucky though. Going on all his adventures. They were fun when he took me into caves and camps in the Hold. But now he goes away for weeks, sometimes months, even all the way to Riften. I can’t leave my shield-sibling that long. And you fight bigger things now. Dragons, even. It must be great.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

Farkas turned himself towards her, his overly large frame blocking out half her view of whatever riot was occurring across the hearth. The light dimmed and she looked up into his sad, battle-hardened, innocent face.

“Look. I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll just say it. Be good to him. He’s a good man and a great friend. Enjoy your time with him, ’cause there might come a day when he’s not there or you can’t go anymore.”

“I – ” Lydia was interrupted again by more shouting and laughing and the sound of fists on the table. When it was quiet enough she smiled softly at Farkas. “I will. Don’t worry.”

The big Nord smiled back. “Good.”

* * *

 

The night waxed on and the shadows grew outside, as did the noise and the hazy air of the hall. Farkas had gone and Lydia was alone again, nursing her half-filled mug of ale in the flickering light of the melting candles. She was somewhat sad to see him go, but she was glad he’d managed to make amends with his shield-brothers and -sisters.

Well, not really _amends._ After a he’d told her a few more roughly-articulated and wildly-animated stories, he’d just stood up, walked over, and punched Njada Stonearm in the face. 

All debts were settled.

And all fists were flying.

She smiled and resumed playing with her mug.

After some time of silent brewing and lethargically picking at her food, she glanced up again nervously to where Cato had been seated before, and braced herself this time, but he was not there. _Strange,_ she thought as she looked around, brows twisting in confusion. _He was only there a moment-_

“Did you save this seat for me?”

She jumped in her seat, nearly spilling her ale. Cato leaned over her by the side, hand on the back of her chair. He wore a gentle smile and her chest tightened despite her fright.

“Sorry,” he said, setting down his little blue cup.

“Gods Cato, don’t sneak up on me like that! You scared the _shit_ out of me!” Lydia put a hand to her wildly beating heart, giving her friend a particularly unkind glare.

He shrugged. “It’s what I do best. And, correct me if I’m mistaken, but was that – _swearing_ I heard coming from your mouth?” he grinned shrewdly, raising his eyebrow. He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “You know, I might just have to put this in my Thane logbook. ‘Twenty-Third of Hearthfire, Fourth Era, Two Oh Two, Sundas – is it Sundas? – Unruly Behaviour of Housecarl. Unprecedented Cursing. Caused Me Great Distress’.” He put his hand out in front of him, writing into thin air.

Lydia removed her hand, heart finally slowing, still scowling at him.

“It’s Morndas, now. And logbook? You have a logbook?”

“Of course I do! Didn’t you know?”

“Do you actually write in it?”

He smiled darkly.

“Of course you don’t,” she sighed, smiling nonetheless. It was impossible to stay mad at him for long.

“You know me so well,” he smirked, pulling up a chair and turning it backwards to sit down, facing her. “I’m only riling you, you know that?”

“I know,” she smiled.

“I actually _don’t_ have that logbook anymore. Lost it after a week.”

“You idiot,” she laughed, not surprised in the slightest.

“Hey, watch it now. I could always ask Balgruuf for another.”

He folded his arms across the back of the wooden chair and let his legs rest comfortably on either side. His knee bumped the side of her leg and rested there, unnaturally hot as always, but he didn’t seem to notice or care, so she didn’t say anything.

She couldn’t look at him, though, for fear of her cheeks betraying her, so she turned to watch Njada give a particularly hard swing to Farkas’ stomach. He groaned a little, but laughed and shook it off to deliver a swift blow to the Stonearm’s _famous_ arm. Jeers and praises resounded.

Cato let out a small laugh beside her, shaking his head. She felt him move where he touched her. “You know, two years here and the pure … _stubbornness_ and iron will of you Nords still amazes me. Things are so boring in Cyrodiil, you know. We almost never have parties and when we do, it’s because a new law got passed or your great-great aunt finally died and you’re all scrambling to pry her fortune from her cold dead fingers.”

“Oh. That sounds… horrible.”

He gave her a deadpan look. “I’m joking, Lydia.”

“Oh. Right.”

“And the oblivious nature of Nords, as well. I swear, I’ll never get used to this country,” he snorted, taking another mouthful of ale. He turned up his nose again. “By the Eight, this swill is _terrible._ Don’t they have anything good in this damned place?”

She could only stare at him.

Oblivious? _Oblivious?_ Didn’t he _realise_ what he did to her? How she thought about him all the time, even when he wasn’t there? How she could barely look at him anymore without burning up, how she stiffened under his touch more frequently, and how she didn’t even have the slightest inkling as to why? How her heart beat faster every time he smiled at her now? How much she liked it when his hair was ruffled from sleep, and how he was always a little grumpy an hour after he woke, and how he never failed to triple lock the front door every time he came home, and how he picked the carrots out of his soup every time? How he always wore a crooked smile that showed that one missing tooth despite how utterly unfair and _hard_ his life was?

Yes. And _she_ was oblivious.

“They’re not as bad as I make them out to be, I guess. The parties, I mean, not the mead. This stuff will forever haunt my darkest dreams.” He peered into his drink with disgust before taking another quick sip. “But no matter. You probably wouldn’t enjoy them anyways. Too much wine and velour and gold. They’re _way_ out of your league.” He eyed her from behind his mug, and she smiled.

“Out of my league? That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Oh, you wound me!” he laughed, clutching at his chest dramatically. And she couldn’t help but smile back. She’d always liked his laugh. “Of course! Everything from Cyrodiil is out of your league, you barbaric race, you.”

“Even the people?” she smiled. She’d caught him.

His smile darkened and his voice lowered. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

Oh. _Oh._ She’d been lured into the trap. Caught blind-sided.

Was he actually…? Or was he just poking at her?

Her stomach dropped like a stone to the floor and she started to burn red again, the room suddenly very hot and sticky. She turned away.

“You’re riling me up again,” she accused, refusing to look at him.

 

 

“Maybe. Is it working?” he breathed, voice heavy and thick with something she’d never heard come from him before. It crawled across her skin like fire ants.

She’d never heard him speak to her like that before, and it frightened her. And, if she were being honest, intrigued her. She didn’t know what to do. She _never_ knew what to do in situations like this. Not that she’d ever had many, mind you, but still.

So she went and blew it.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

He threw his head back and let out a harsh laugh. “Ouch, fell right for that one! Now how did I not see that coming?” He smiled warmly at her and her heart leapt in her chest.

How was he able to get under her skin like that? He just sat there, not a nerve out of place, while hers were fraying at the seams. It seemed like he was either on or he was off. Nothing in between.

“Not sure,” she said. “Blinded by the glint of gold, perhaps? I hear you Imperials are drawn towards it like flies to – ” she pulled herself up short, so lost in the moment that she startled herself how close she’d come to saying it again.

“To what?” Cato’s smile was simply devious. He leaned closer and it took everything she had not to pull away. Or get any closer, for that matter. His skin was warm and she could feel the heat through his chemise. She could smell the mead on his breath. “What were you going to say, Lydia? Come on, I’ll even throw out my logbook for you.”

She suddenly became very self-conscious then, which was odd to say the least, for she never cared what anyone thought of her appearance and behaviour. She folded her arms in a subconscious effort to appear smaller. And it was much harder than she liked to admit to keep eye contact with him.

“I – no.”

“Please?”

She shook her head and grit her teeth.

“Not even for me?”

“ _Definitely_ not for you.”

He smiled at the jab. “Come on, Lydia. I want to hear you swear again. Just once. It was… _charming_ ,” he purred, rubbing at his jaw.

Yes, _purred._

“Charming?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“Pleasant. Delightful. Amusing. Attractive. You want me to continue?”

“I know what the word means, Cato,” she sighed.

“Then why were you asking? If you knew what I meant.”

“I don’t know. It just – surprised me, I guess.”

“What did? My choice of wording? Or the fact that I want to hear you swear again?”

“Not the swearing. I know you have a foul mouth.”

“Ah. So it was _charming_ , then.” His thicker Cyrodiilic accent paired with that damned word made her stomach turn.

In a good or bad way, she wasn’t entirely sure.

But she knew this conversation had turned too fast again.

“I guess. Though I _was_ going for ‘Was that supposed to be a compliment?’ but I guess Nords aren’t the only ones with thick heads,” she deflected with humour. She’d been getting much better at it lately.

“Ow, Lydia, you continue to wound me! You’ll be the death of me tonight, you know? But,” he said slyly, “perhaps it _was_. Can a Dragonborn not compliment his hardworking Housecarl once in a while? I daresay she deserves it.”

Her face was burning up again, and she was positive he could see it. Still, she tried to hide it by placing her head in her hands.

“You can, I guess. But you should pick something other than ‘Please, Lydia, can you swear for me? I _need_ to hear you swear! Swear swear _swear!_ ’ ”

“I do not sound like that! Do I sound like that?”

She shrugged, staring down into her mug.

“You know, it’s fun and all, poking at you, and I’ll admit I do get some pleasure from it. But it’s not the only reason I came over here.” Her heart beat wildly again and she looked up, a stony expression on her face. or what she hoped was stony, anyways.

He smiled warmly and his voice fell again. Not like it had last time, but it was still… _different._ “I just wanted to thank you. For tonight.”

Her heartbeat slowed, relieved. Maybe only a little.

“Hm. I don’t recall saving you from bandits or anything,” she smiled, straightening up a little. “Now, was that _between_ the arm wrestling and the face-stuffing challenge? Or after Farkas tried to pull his pants down?”

“Oh, _wow!_ ” he laughed, smiling wide and showing the gap at the back where a tooth should have been. She made a note to ask him the longer version story behind it one day. She’d grown more curious as time rolled by.

“Look at you go, Lydia! You make me so proud, you know.” He clapped her on the back in a friendly way, and it burned for long after he stopped, both on her skin and in her mind. “I guess I _did_ get something through your thick skull after all. Now, if it had only been how to fight better, and cook better, and be a better Housecarl…” he trailed off, smirking at her disgruntled expression.

Even in this slight drunken state he could tell when the conversation could lead to a fist in the face. Or someplace worse.

“No, really though,” he said softly, running a hand through his short, unkempt hair. She always liked when he did that. “I mean it. Thanks for coming.”

She looked at him, somewhat perplexed. “Why? I should be thanking _you._ You invited me.” She thought for a moment, staring down at her ale, before adding, “Why did you invite me? I mean, I’m not really one for gatherings like this, and I’m not even drinking or talking much. I’m not very fun,” she smiled wryly.

Cato blinked in confusion. “Because you’re my friend. I wanted you here.”

She smiled and something inside her stirred, warmed. He could be so… _sweet_ at times. When he wasn’t severing the heads from the shoulders of bandits. Or covered in dragon blood.

“Well. You’re welcome, then,” she smiled.

“… _Also_ , I needed your body to shield me in case one of them throws a punch. Seems it wasn’t a _wholly_ unfounded motive,” he said, glancing to the still-ongoing match between the two Companions.

“Glad I could be of service, my Thane,” she said dryly, though not entirely meaning it.

He smiled again, causing her damned heart to flutter and her chest to tighten, before finishing off the last of his mead, his face squinting in disgust. “Ugh, that’s simply _vile._ I need some more.” He grabbed a jug from the table and began slowly pouring some of the lukewarm drink into his blue cup.

“How much have you had to drink?” Lydia asked carefully. She never liked to babysit him, but then again, sometimes she needed to.

He shrugged, concentrating on the task at hand. “Not much. We’ve got to get up early tomorrow. I haven’t forgot, if you’re wondering.” He looked up to her, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you wonder?”

“No reason, really,” she said, hiding her smile behind her mug. “It’s just, you keep saying how much you hate the mead, but you keep drinking it. I’m wondering why that is.”

He shrugged. “Because I’m thirsty. And Farkas will have my head if he sees me drink anything else. I’m not sure if you noticed, but he’s a big man. I’ve seen him in battle. I’d hate to be unfortunate enough to be on the other end of his fist. Or weapon, if it came to that.”

He set the pitcher down carefully, but the fire in the centre hearth and the candles dotting the tables had burned low since they’d arrived and it was darker in the hall. So while he _meant_ to set it down carefully, it was anything but.

He set it down on a knife and it wobbled for a moment before losing balance and spilling over the table. It was only half full, but the pitcher was big, and the table was crowded. It flooded over plates of meat and cheese and knocked a candle over, causing it to flicker and die as the mead poured over the edge and onto the stone floor.

“Shit,” Cato grumbled, darting up from the chair gracefully and moving away before the mead could get on his shoes.

“And you’re sure you haven’t had much?” Lydia asked, watching him scramble around for a rag or cloth of any sort. He gave her a condescending glare before picking up a handful from the bench against the wall.

“Just help me, would you? Here,” he said, handing her a dirty rag. She took it and turned her nose up.

“It’s used,” she said, eyeing it with disdain. “Don’t you have anything cleaner? A mop would be better.”

“Just – _please._ It’s good enough for now,” he said, lifting up plates and goblets to wipe up the mead. Well, more like swirl it around. It wasn’t doing much good. He shook his head and grumbled, “by the Eight, Tilma’s going to _murder_ me.”

“Who’s Tilma?” she asked, bending down to clean the stone floor. Her knees were still bruised and sore from where the ghost had brought his sword against them, but it wasn’t enough to stop her from using them.

“Tilma? Oh. Right. You haven’t met her. _Lucky you_ ,” she heard him above her, clanging around utensils and plates and cups in his attempt to clean the sticky drink. “She’s the old maid here. They don’t call her The Haggard for nothing.”

“Hey!” Lydia scolded, moving her heavy wooden chair to get underneath. The dirty rags were of little use on the stone, and she felt she was merely swirling it around and creating a bigger mess. “You shouldn’t speak that way about an old woman. It shows no respect.”

Cato knelt down beside her suddenly, face very close and level with hers, and frowned. Lydia swallowed.

“Respect? Sorry, Lyds, but I don’t get near enough to show her anything but my ass end. I tell you, that biddy can hear you blink around the corner. She _terrifies_ me.”

Lydia smiled wryly. “Afraid of an old woman but you can face down dra – ”

“Hey! What are you two doing down there?” a gruff voice called out from above, causing the two of them to jump. They rose to their knees to peer over the table between jugs and food and found the Companions looking at them and Torvar smiling deviously, a chunk of some unrecognisable salted meat in his hand.

“Look, I understand,” he began. “You’re both young and ya got yer urges, but if ya want to fuck don’t do it under the table. Too close to my food. There’s plenty of beds downstairs. I’m sure Vilky here wouldn’t mind you using his.”

“What did I say about you calling me that?” Vilkas growled, boring a hole with his dark eyes in the back of Torvar’s head.

Lydia’s face blossomed into a deep shade of red and she rose slowly to her feet. She couldn’t look her Thane in the face. Or anyone else, for that matter. Their laughs and raised eyebrows were too much, despite not really knowing these people.

“Oh, _ha ha._ You’re _such_ a jokester, Torvar,” Cato snickered beside her, rising as well. He took a seat again, abandoning the rags and the mead to Tilma. “Really. I don’t know _how_ you manage to make it through the day without throwing in a dirty one-liner every other conversation.”

“Joke?” The Nord snorted, taking a rather large bite from the chunk of meat. “ _That_ was no joke. You want to hear a joke?”

Lydia still couldn’t look at her friend, but she saw his form from the corner of her eye and he seemed to sag into his chair, arms crossed. “Not really…”

Torvar swallowed roughly and cleared his throat, ignoring him. “Alright. What is the thinnest book in the world?” he asked dramatically, arms outstretched to the wide hall.

A moment of rare silence swept through the hall as the men and women thought about it. Torvar, being the showman he was, let the silence linger a few moments more.

“Anyone? No?” He smiled deviantly before answering himself in an airy, almost sing-song voice: “Imperial Heroes of the Great War.”

Another burst of laughter. Lydia’s could make out Cato shaking his head.

Not the best joke in the world, but to a ragtag group of drunken Nords it was the funniest thing said all night.

“Wait,” Njada interjected, setting down her goblet, “here’s one! What kind of Imperial doesn’t lie or cheat or steal?” She barely waited a half second before answering, “a dead one!”

“ _Ha!_ ” Torvar pounded the table with his hand, spilling his ale over his plate. Everyone else laughed riotously.

“Hold on! Learned this one from Belethor a while back,” Athis said in his smooth Dunmer voice. He cleared his throat and spoke slowly as if trying to recite it perfectly. “How many Imperials does it take to replace a streetlamp? Fourteen: One quartermaster to fill out the ten-page requisition form, five bureaucrats to process the request and ultimately deny it, an opposing official and five staff members to file an appeal, and one to actually fix it!”

“Wait, that’s only thirteen,” someone said amidst the roaring laughter. Lydia didn’t catch who.

“Oh, whatever,” Athis brushed it off, taking another swig of his drink. “Just be glad I remembered the whole thing.”

“Hey! Hey!” Farkas bellowed, standing up and towering over everyone else. “How many _Nords_ does it take to replace a streetlamp? None! They want no part in anything Imperials do!”

The Companions bellowed out into the hall, Torvar clutching at his sides, Njada wiping away tears, and Skjor shaking his head in a quiet chuckle. Even Vilkas was smiling a little in the shadows.

“What do you call people who are afraid of elves? The Empire!”

“What do you get when you cross three heavily-armed Imperials and a drunken Nord? An unfair fight! There’s not enough Imperials!”

“Cyrodiil is so boring that even Imperials want to leave it!”

It took a while for the laughter to die down slowly, first here and there, everyone hesitant for someone else to recite a joke. No one delivered. There were a few murmurs and embarrassed coughs as most everyone turned to stare at Ria.

“You know,” she laughed, less sure of herself now. “Because Cato left. It must be boring.”

An awkward near-silence rang out in the hall. Lydia finally had the gall to venture a glance to her Thane, who was trying, and failing, to cover a grin.

“Gods dammit Ria, you always ruin everything.” Torvar sat back in his chair, arms crossed, severely unimpressed.

“Hey now, that’s not nice!” she said, slightly hurt.

Cato, as ever, came to the rescue. “Yeah, it’s true,” he said, leaning forward onto the table. “I won’t lie, Cyrodiil _is_ sort of boring. There’s all these laws and rules and fences to keep mammoths from trampling your farm and bandits from stabbing you in your bed.”

Ria gave him an appreciative, if somewhat embarrassed, smile.

“If I may ask, why _did_ you leave Cyrodiil, Dragonborn?” Vilkas interjected before Torvar blurted something vulgar out. “I don’t believe you’ve ever enlightened us.”

Lydia tensed, and she felt the air around the two of them do the same.

They never discussed what happened before Cato came here. He never mentioned it, and she never asked.

The man had his scars on his hands, his chest, his face, all from his battles past, and she knew there were others that she couldn’t even see, ones that ran too deep and that he’d carried for far longer.

He hadn’t told her the stories of them yet. She began to doubt he ever would.

“Oh, you know,” he said lightly after a moment, waving a dismissive hand. “Reasons.”

“Like?” Vilkas pressed, his dark eyes fixed on the man seated beside Lydia.

“Hey, if he doesn’t want to say, stop pestering him!” Ria came to his rescue this time, delivering to the older brother a harsh glare. Cato gave her a small smile.

“I just wanted to see more of the world, I guess.” Lydia risked another glance at him. He was pointedly avoiding her gaze.

“I know why!” Vilkas jumped in. “Got tired of that piss-water you Imperials call beer!”

“Alright, can we stop making fun of the _only_ Imperial in here now?” Cato laughed, and it seemed to Lydia that the tension that engulfed them and whatever was troubling him had evaporated into the air like a dying ice wraith.

She was glad.

“Aww, you know it’s only in jest, pup,” Skjor noted, pouring himself some mead.

“Hey, _I’m_ an Imperial, you know.”

“Get off it, Ria, you were born here,” Torvar scolded, earning another unkind look from the woman.

“Yeah, you’re more Nord than Vilkas!” Farkas laughed, reaching for his mug.

“Got more balls, too!” Lydia couldn’t see who said it, but whoever it was earned a few smiles and friendly thumps on the back and a vicious scowl from the man standing back in the shadows.

“Ha! Snowberries!”

“Can we go back to reaming Imperials?” Vilkas said hotly, crossing his arms.

_“What about Imperials?”_

The voice came from behind them all, from the darkest corner of Jorrvaskr, by the stairs descending to the sleeping quarters. It was high but strong, carrying a just mention of distaste but a host of pride.

Every head turned that way, to the figure in the shadows, and Lydia had to twist fully around to see the outline of a woman standing in the doorway to the great hall. She was a warrior, no doubt, for even a fool could tell by her rent Nordic armour and rugged, muscled build. She was lithe, though, and carried a hunting bow upon her back, and a steel dagger strapped to her boot.

She took a step forward, then two, and then she was close enough that Lydia could see her face cast in the light of a lone, flickering candle. She had to suppress a gasp.

She was _beautiful._

She had three jagged scars of dark war paint across her face, making it seem as if she’d been attacked by a sabre-tooth or cave bear. Her hair was red, it seemed, or very close to the shade, falling around her angular face and framing it perfectly, and her silver eyes swept the hall with an intelligent, piercing determinedness. It reminded Lydia eerily of a wolf. She bore a little grin, not quite happy, not quite sardonic, but somewhere in between. 

“Aela!” Farkas boomed out in the silence, spreading his arms and his smile wide. “You’re back!”

But she didn’t seem to notice the giant of a man, for her eyes had found her mark in the man seated beside Lydia.

“Oh,” she sneered, what little remained of her smile falling from her beautiful face. “It’s _you_.”

Cato smiled thinly and crossed his arms. “Nice to see you too, Aela.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Lydia bristled at her comment and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She did _not_ like the way this _Aela_ woman had said that.

“Aela, you just missed it!” Farkas boomed again, seemingly unhurt from Aela’s lack of acknowledgement. “Cato was telling us the story of why he came here! To Skyrim!”

Aela turned to face the big Nord, crossing her arms. He was beaming at her, but she didn’t return the gesture. “Hm. I bet it was simply _riveting_.”

“Wow,” Cato interjected, causing her to turn her narrowed, piercing wolf-like eyes onto him. “Those are _big words_ , Aela. Don’t hurt yourself, now.”

“Hurt myself? If I recall, _I_ wasn’t the one who crawled in here not six months past crying like a milk-drinker about my arm.” She gave him a severe, mocking grin, and it nearly sent a shiver up Lydia’s spine.

“See! Told ya you was cryin’,” Torvar spoke up, earning a cuff on the back of his head from Ria. He grumbled a bit them resumed chewing on a cold piece of meat.

She ignored him and continued. “It’s been a while, Imperial. You look like a sight for sore eyes. What the hell kind of beast chewed you up and spat you out?”

Cato donned a sweet, friendly smile, and to anyone who knew him any less than Lydia did they would have thought it was genuine. She knew him, though, and she knew that smile was _not._ “Looking _lovely_ yourself. It was a dragon, actually. Did you forget I fight those? Oh, of course you did. You’re too busy chasing after Skjor.”

A spark of anger flickered across the woman’s face, only for a moment, and Lydia knew then she was dangerous, and in more ways than one. “Always back to that, Imperial. Can’t you come up with anything else?” Her smile twisted even darker before adding, “Oh, that’s right, you _can’t_. You Cyrodiilic _rats_ need permission from the elves first.”

She spat that word out so harshly and so unbelievably easily that some deep-rooted anger rose fiercely from Lydia’s stomach and lanced through her chest, so hot and so violently that she shifted to stand up. Cato placed a light, warm hand on her arm, only the tips of a few fingers, but it was enough to stop her after she’d rose only a few centimetres and without any eye contact. She gave him a bewildered look, but he only clenched his jaw and shook his head infinitesimally to the left.

In the silent language they’d both learned to speak in the company of the other, she knew he was conveying the message that this woman wasn’t worth it.

She sat back down, heart thudding loudly and erratically.

“Hey now, you two!” Skjor, always the peace-keeper, stood up from his seat and put his hands out in front of him in a diplomatic gesture. “Not this again! Get along!”

“Yeah,” Torvar added in, taking a long swig of mead. “Don’t be ruinin’ our party, or he’ll never come back!”

“Yes, Aela, come join us! There’s still plenty of mead and meat to go around!” Ria smiled up at the woman, offering out a hand with a mug full of ale.

Lydia didn’t think the woman’s eyes could narrow any more but she was proven wrong. “This party is for the _Imperial?_ ” She gave the Dragonborn such a disgusted look, like he was nothing more than dirt on the bottom of her boots. Like he was even less than that.

Lydia narrowed her own eyes at the woman, then looked down at her hands when she realised they hurt. They were sweaty and had red marks on them from where her nails had dug into her palms. She hadn’t noticed she’d been clenching her fists so tightly.

“I have a name, you know,” Cato said hotly, faint traces of irritation seeping into his tone now.

The woman snorted, brushing him off like he was merely a fly that had landed near her food. “Not one I care to remember.”

Lydia bristled again, anger prickling uncomfortably across her skin.

Didn’t this woman know who she was talking to? How _dare_ she speak to the Thane like that. To the _Dragonborn_ like that! He was worth more than a thousand of her! A _hundred_ thousand!

“Yeah, he never visits any more!” Farkas smiled, blissfully unaware of the heated exchange occurring just across the long wooden table.

“Pity.”

“Aw, are you jealous, Huntress? I bet _you_ don’t have a standing ovation every time you walk through those doors.”

Lydia managed another look to her friend, her eyes asking what he was on about, why he indulged in this woman’s petty banter. Normally he was pretty good with ignoring things like this. But his usually playful eyes were locked on Aela’s, cold and hard and not his own.

She snorted again. “No, I don’t need one. I prefer to stick around and actually do my duties as a Companion. But you wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

“Oh, right, I _forgot_ ,” he lauded easily, leaning back in his chair. This seamed to make the Huntress with the cold wolf eyes even angrier. Lydia watched her fists ball up at her side. “I am _so_ sorry. Truly I am. But it does get difficult to squeeze in the time to visit in between all the dragons I’m killing and the treasures I’m finding and the people I’m saving,” he waved offhandedly. "You know, the _duties_ of being a _Dragonborn?_ It does get a tad tiring, you know, especially when I have to deal with racist bigots like yourself.”

“What did you call me?” she growled, pacing over to Cato like a wolf to its dying prey.

“I think you heard me quiet clearly.” He rose to his feet to meet her, faces inches apart, the pure hatred rolling from them in waves and the tension so thick you could have cut it with a knife.

The Huntress stood not a hair’s breadth taller than the Dragonborn but this didn’t phase him. He returned her vicious snarl with a stony glare, and maybe it was just the trick of the light or her own anger and bewilderment, but Lydia could have sworn on all nine Divines that his brown eyes flashed a striking, dangerous yellow for half the span of a heartbeat.

It was all Lydia could do to sit in her chair, cowering like a fool, afraid of this Aela and, for the first time since he’d walked through the doors of Dragonsreach, her Thane.

Because the only time she’d seen him do that was on his knees, racked in pain as the soul of a yellow-eyed dragon fused onto his own.

And maybe this Aela saw it too, because she faltered for a moment and she listened when Skjor came between them and told them to back off. And she didn’t smile when Farkas came over and suggested, maybe a bit too enthusiastically, that the two of them settle their differences the good old-fashioned Nord way.

“Out in the yard! Come on, I haven’t seen a good fight in so long!”

Cato unclenched his fists and took a step back, shaking his head, calming himself down.

He turned and gave a strained smile to his friend, and his eyes were brown again, and soft. They were his own.

“You’d like to see that, wouldn’t you?” he asked softly, steadying his breathing.

Farkas beamed. “Yes! Let’s go!”

“Well. I wouldn’t want to disappoint you, Farkas,” he smiled, his body relaxing more with each passing moment. Lydia let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and wiped her sweaty palms on her pants. “You know I hate to do that. But I’d rather not be sore tomorrow. We’re heading out, remember? Going all the way to Solitude.”

He turned to face Aela again, giving her a hard look. Less severe and dangerous than last time, but it was still unkind. “I wouldn’t want to hurt our dear Aela here, either. She relies too heavily on her pretty face.”

There was such a severe cloud of rage about her and in her stormy eyes and on her twisted, snarling face that Lydia began to wonder how she’d ever thought this woman beautiful. But the Huntress didn’t move, and she didn’t say anything. Maybe, hopefully, she’d learned.

“Speaking of early, I think it’s about time we head back.” He looked at Lydia and jerked his head as if to say _let’s go._ She nodded, maybe too eagerly, and rose to her feet.

“Hey, you can’t leave yet!” Farkas said, a frown forming on his face.

“You should stay a while longer, Shield-Brother,” Skjor smiled to him, still between him and the Huntress. “Do not let her – _antagonising_ ways – get to you. She should know better.”

Aela gave one last cold glare to Cato before turning on her heel and disappearing into the shadows and down the same wooden stairs she’d come up from. She slammed the door rather loudly.

“Yeah, the night’s still young, Vitellas! We’ve only finished half the beer. You need to help us. It doesn’t keep too well this time of year, ya know,” Torvar grinned behind his mug, lifting a pitcher of half-warm ale and spilling the rest over the brim onto the table.

“You seem to be handling that quite well on your own, there,” Cato smiled. “Don’t drink it all, though. Save some for next time.”

“No, you can’t leave yet!” Farkas repeated, a genuinely sad frown on his face. “Don’t let her make you leave.”

Cato sighed, turning back to Farkas and placing a hand on his shoulder. The man towered over him and more than doubled him in mass, but the Nord looked down at the Imperial with such respect and love that she couldn’t help but smile, the ice cracking from her recent scare.

“She’s not, Farkas. I truly do have to depart early. We’re heading off before the sun rises, and any longer here and you’ll have me committing some heinous crime involving Vilkas and under clothing again.” Farkas smiled and Vilkas scowled but didn’t say anything. “A night in jail will set me back some time. I can’t have that.”

Farkas frowned again for a moment, slowly contemplating in that thick head of his. “You could stay the night,” he said. “You still have a bed here.”

“I think we both know that wouldn’t turn out.”

Farkas sighed then placed his own hand on Cato’s shoulder in return. His massive hand dwarfed the other man’s. “Alright,” he smiled, defeated but optimistic. “I’ll let you go this time. Just this time, though. You’ll come back soon, right?”

“Of course,” Cato said. “I can’t leave all the fun to you now, could I?”

Farkas smiled again then shook Cato’s shoulders, clapping him on the back. “Good. Don’t be long.” He let Cato go and picked up his little blue cup near Lydia’s elbow from the table. “I get the rest of yours, though,” he smiled, raising the cup.

“You can have it all,” Cato said, turning his nose up at the mention of the mead.

“So you’re leavin’, then?” Torvar shouted from across the table, causing Cato to turn to him and smile.

“Yes, Torvar, and remember what I said about the ale.”

“Only if you remember what I said about fucking under tables.”

Lydia’s cheeks burned again.

“Yes,” Cato snipped, knowing where this was going. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Only use a bed, now. It’s the best spot,” Torvar went on, encouraged by the sniggers of his friends.

“I hear your Breezehome has quite the… _luxurious_ bed. Being made for Thane and all,” Athis’ smooth voice interjected.

Torvar’s eyes widened. “S’that so? S’that where you’re going? That why you leavin’? You and little miss Housecarl there just can’t _wait_ to get back I bet.”

“Alright, we are leaving now.” Cato turned and motioned Lydia to follow him. She obeyed, hiding her fiery cheeks from the others.

“Look, he doesn’t even deny it!”

“Be careful with him, sweetie. Might hurt his arm again.”

“Naw, he doesn’t know how to handle Nord women.”

“Someone has to teach him. Has she taught you yet?”

“It’s _quite_ the ride.”

Lydia followed her Thane to the great wooden doors of Jorrvaskr, head low, attempting to ignore the jeers and catcalls and whistles and some rather… well, _rude_ and _vulgar_ would be too generous to describe what these men and women were saying.

“I wonder what it would be like with an Imperial. You think he’d have any strange fetishes?”

“You’d probably have to pretend you’re the Thalmor the get him off!”

“Or the Emperor.”

“Alright, enough. I am leaving now.” Cato turned to face his friends with a grim smile, his hand on the door. Lydia couldn’t look at him or the Companions.

“Leaving? Or _coming?_ ”

“Wow, that was quick.”

“Ok then,” he said, shaking his head, and leaning against the heavy oaken doors of Jorrvaskr he pushed them open, letting the cool autumn air rush in and causing the hall to darken as the candles and the hearthfire flickered for a moment. He stepped out into the darkness and Lydia slipped out behind him.

“Hey! Don’t forget to pull his – ”

The doors slammed shut with a resounding finality, cutting off the laughter and warmth and harsh voices of the Nords inside.

The dying light that had been lingering on the horizon when they’d first arrived had been totally obliterated by the dark. The once-purple sky had been transformed into a vast expanse of inky night that engulfed the town but, high above, a canopy of brilliant stars sparkled in the black ocean. Some were dull and distant, merely flickering into existence every now and then as if to make their mark on the world, as if to say “I’m here!” to blind or unwilling eyes, but there were many that burned so bright and so bravely it was enough to illuminate the moonless night and the shapes of shabby little homes, the lampposts lining the cobbled road, and the white tree towering over all in the centre of the square.

There was a crispness to the night air that spoke of the coming winter, and it felt good and cool in Lydia’s lungs, but they were young and warmed from the inside by many drinks. And Lydia’s cheeks were still burning fervently.

“Well,” she started, hesitant. “That was… fun.”

Cato looked to her and smiled apologetically. “Yeah. Ah, sorry about that. They can get a little… _rowdy_ sometimes,” he laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

He started walking down the steps, careful not to miss one and tumble over. Lydia walked with him.

“It’s ok. Nords are like that. It just means they care about you.”

“I know. Still don’t think I’ll ever get used to it, though.”

He stopped when he reached the bottom step leading up to Jorrvaskr, hesitating. He looked up into the brilliant night sky for a moment, sighed, then sat down on the cold stone.

“Sit with me,” he said, and she obeyed.

She could feel the unnatural heat coming off of him, even though they weren’t touching. It kept her warm, though being a Nord, she wasn’t cold in the first place. It was still nice, though. It made her feel… _safe_ , she supposed.

And then she remembered those piercing yellow eyes not long ago. And looking to her friend, shivering pathetically despite his heat and the temperate night air, she couldn’t remember how she’d ever been afraid of him, if only for a moment.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, almost without thinking.

“Always.”

“Why doesn’t that Aela woman like you?”

He shrugged, crossing his arms to keep warm. “I’m not sure, really. We just never got along. Our views are… _differing_ , to put it lightly.”

“Did you do something to make her angry?”

“Perhaps,” he said after a moment. “Though I don’t have to do much to make people hate me.”

“That’s not true.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “It isn’t?”

“You don’t have to do _anything_ ,” she smiled, and he returned it.

“Good one. But enough of her now. I won’t have her sour my mood any longer.”

She nodded, looking out into the square. It was empty at this time of night, all decent folk sleeping in their beds, and except for the odd, sad cry of a nightingale, they were utterly alone. The Gildergreen was in full bloom again, thanks to their exploits, its brilliant crimson leaves moving erratically in the ever-present breeze of the Wind District.

“Can I ask you something else then?”

“Always.”

“Why does Farkas call you ‘Salty’?”

“Ha!” he laughed, smiling wide again. “Does he still say that?”

Lydia nodded.

“Really? Almost forgot about that. Salty…” he mused, eyes glistening. “It’s a name he gave to me, some time ago now. _Salt-Seer_. Cato Salt-Seer.” He shook his head, remembering. “I showed him once how you could trick people by mixing up their salt and sugar. It was something I did as a child. Anyways, he kept switching out the salt and the sugar for nearly half a year. It drove everyone _mad!_ I thought he’d forgotten about it by now. Guess not.”

He turned his eyes from the stars to smile at Lydia, their faraway light illuminating his face, making her chest tighten. “Surprised he was talking to you, though. He’s not much of a talker, that one. Amazing what a few drinks can do to a man.”

“He looks up to you, you know.”

“Yeah. I know. He’s a good man. A little thick, but he’s got a heart of gold. They all do.”

“They’re nice enough. They seem fun, too. They’re a good time.”

“Yeah,” he smiled. “Had some pretty good times there.”

“I can only imagine.”

He laughed again, the sound carrying across the square and echoing into the night. “Yeah, and they weren’t even drinking that much. You should’ve seen them on Torvar’s birthday! Athis and Ria stole half the stuff from a Khajiit caravan. In one go! _No_ idea how they did it. Gave it all back the next day, mind you, but still. And Vilkas climbed the roof!”

“This roof?” Lydia asked, glancing up to the very tall, domed roof of Jorrvaskr towering just behind them. She could hardly believe quiet, serious Vilkas would ever do such a thing.

“Yes! Kodlak came out though, really early in the morning. Njada woke him up. He was _not_ happy. Told him to, and I quote, ‘get his flea-bitten, good-for-nothing ass off the roof’. Vilkas called him some choice words, and Farkas started throwing rocks up at him. He came down eventually, but not before the guards showed up. He threw a punch at one of them.” Cato laughed again. “He was in a lot of trouble for that.”

“They mean a lot to you, don’t they?” she asked, echoing her conversation with Farkas.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “They’re good people. They’re big and loud and kind of crude sometimes, and they like to make fun of me. You think that was the first time I heard those jokes?”

Lydia smiled, shaking her head. Not for a second did she believe tonight’s antics were an anomaly.

“But they’re good. It’s a good place to relax, you know? And I don’t visit nearly as much as I’d like, but when I do, everyone is just so _happy_ to see me. No one really judges me there. No one bothers me. Except Aela, of course, but she doesn’t matter. There’s good food and good ale and a bed if I ever need one. And someone to talk to.” He shrugged again. “Never really had that. Everyone needs a place like that, I guess. Almost like –” he stopped short, swallowing.

“Like a family?” she said softly.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “Yeah. I guess you could say that.”

“You didn’t leave Cyrodiil to see more of the world, did you?”

She regretted the words almost before they left her mouth. The subject was taboo. Unsaid, though, but still. And she knew it.

It took him a long moment before he answered.

“No. I guess not.”

“Why… why have you never – ?” she began, and it was probably the alcohol, but she felt braver. Braver than she had in such a long time.

“Please,” he said softly, barely more than a whisper. “Not yet.”

She let the silence between them linger in the cool air. It was a comfortable one, a warm one, despite his near-reprimand. But she couldn’t be angry at him. Not only because she didn’t want to, but because she had no reason to be.

There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. She knew that.

“You know, I grew up here in the city,” she began, almost timidly, and he turned to face her. “I always saw Jorrvaskr up on the hill, overlooking everything. It made me feel… safe, I guess. Having the Companions watch over us.”

She smiled up to the stars, remembering. She wasn’t even sure why she was telling him this, but it didn’t matter, she supposed. “When I was a little girl, me and my brother would pretend we were great warriors from Jorrvaskr. We’d have sword fights and go off and slay sabre-cats and trolls and imaginary dragons. I always told myself I’d become a Companion one day, that I’d get to see inside this hall and fight with the best. Protect my city in turn.”

Her smile fell a little, but it was still there. “But things change. It never happened. Life has a way of taking you places, I guess. It doesn’t turn out the way you thought.”

Cato laughed cynically and it was her turn to look at him. “Yeah. Tell me about it. Never in a _million_ _years_ did I think I’d be where I am. Here, tonight, or whenever. Even in Skyrim. I don’t know what would have happened – sometimes I wonder.” He shifted where he was to get more comfortable, leaning back with his hands on the stone behind him, staring into the heavens.

“This whole Dragonborn business, you know, it – it’s a lot, sometimes, I guess is what I’m trying to say. It’s tough. Sometimes it seems like too much. And sometimes I worry where it’ll take me. This destiny, or prophecy, or whatever you want to call it. I won’t lie, it _terrifies_ me. An Imperial as Skyrim’s hero. A sneak-thief as a dragon-slayer. Some God has a dark sense of humour, I tell you. I’m supposed to be some great hero and always do what’s right. And everyone’s supposed to look up to me. And I just feel like I constantly disappoint. Not even with the Imperial thing. With everything.”

Looking up, Lydia saw a thousand little stars glittering deep in the velvet of a night with no moon. She knew them all, their stories and their names. She knew them in a familiar way, the way she knew her own hands. The way she knew her friend.

“You know, I come out here sometimes by myself. At night, I mean.”

“Yeah?” she said, still looking to the stars.

“Yeah. Keeps me sane, I guess.”

She knew he did. She could hear him sometimes, during those long sleepless nights when her echoing loneliness was preferable to her dreams. She could hear the click and creak of his bedroom window opening and his soft footsteps on the straw roof. Or, sometimes, when it was safe enough for both of them to sleep in the tent, she’d catch him slip out past the canvas flaps and into the night.

“I do it when something’s on my mind, or I need to think things over. There’s just something about sitting alone in the dark that reminds you how big the world really is. How far apart we all are.”

She nodded silently, though he didn’t see her.

“But the stars look like they’re so close, sometimes, like you could reach out and touch them. But you can’t. Sometimes things look a lot closer than they are.”

_Like a lot of things_ , she thought, eyeing him.

He caught her looking at him and her face flushed. “I’m not drunk, you know. These aren’t my drunk ramblings,” he smiled.

“I know. You swear a lot more when you’re drinking. And you can’t put your weapons belt on. Or keep your clothes on, for that matter.”

“Hey, that was only once!” he laughed, nudging her playfully with his shoulder. “And may I remind you I was under the influence of a Daedric Prince.”

“And a lot of alcohol.”

“At least I got that goat back.”

She smiled at him and he smiled back. It was a warm, friendly smile, and she realised then that had he never left Cyrodiil, had he never been caught that day on the border and ordered to come to Whiterun, and had he never faced down that first dragon and earned the right to be called Thane, she never would have met him. She would never even know he existed, and she wouldn’t have cared.

How very different her life would be.

But, maybe, it wasn’t such a bad thing. Life takes you where you least expected, but maybe where you most needed to go.

“Hey, Cato…?” she asked nervously after a long moment.

“Yeah?” he said, turning to her. She could see the reflection of a million little stars in his eyes, bright and burning a million miles away.

She swallowed. “It’s just – I just wanted you to know, no matter where your destiny lies, you will always be my friend. Remember that.”

He smiled a wide smile, one that showed his missing tooth, and placed a warm hand on her arm. Her heart fluttered and she felt her cheeks betraying her.

“I’m glad you’re here with me,” he said.

She couldn’t have agreed more.

* * *

 

“I had fun tonight,” he said, stopping her by the front door to Breezehome before she could open it.

“Yeah. Me too.”

He smiled. “Got a little rough at times, I’ll admit. Had a fist fight, a couple of little brawls here and there, and I almost murdered Aela. But it was fun. All memories, I guess.”

“I guess,” she smiled, “and I guess we’re just lucky no one ended up in jail or pulled out their weapons.”

“Yes!” he laughed, leaning sideways against the door frame and crossing his arms. “And that reminds me. I took the sword and your axe to Adrianne yesterday. She cleaned them up and replaced the leather on the handles. Didn’t want it falling off in battle. _That_ wouldn’t be good. I’m going to take the sword out tomorrow, see how it works. You should bring your axe.”

“I – really?” She gaped, and he smiled smugly at her. “I mean, you didn’t have to, my Thane, you’ve already done so much for me. It – ”

“Lydia, it’s fine. I wanted to,” he said, taking a half step closer. “I meant it, you know. You deserve it.”

She didn’t know what to say.

He was getting good at that lately.

“Thanks again, by the way. For coming.”

“I… never really thanked you, either.”

He gave her a strange look. “Yes you did.”

“No, I meant from before. The other day, in the tomb. For my axe, I mean, it – it really meant a lot. So… thanks.”

He laughed. “No problem. I only got Shouted across the room and punched in the face, but hey, anything for you.” He smiled again, a smile she’d never seen on his face before, and one she’d never seen him give anyone else. It made her heart lash against her ribs like a bird in a cage.

“You still have a bruise there, you know” she smiled, reaching out to trace along the discoloured skin of his jaw. He was too warm and his short stubble felt rough under her fingertips. But still, it felt… _nice._

He smiled and leaned into her touch.

She recoiled and pulled her hand away almost like she’d been burned, and only then did she realise what she’d done.

“I’m – I’m sorry,” she breathed quickly, face burning up again. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s ok, Lydia,” Cato laughed quietly, the sound reverberating from deep in his chest. She could almost feel it. He took another half-step towards her, so close now he was all she could see. “You can touch me, you know. I won’t bite.” His voice was low again, husky even, and it sent a shiver up her spine and caused the hair on her arms to stand.

But it _wasn’t_ ok. Nords _did not_ touch each other like that. _Ever_.

He laughed again, deep and low, and his breath smelled of ale and salted meat and something else that she could only describe as something distinctly _Cato._ He was so close she could even smell the soap he always used on his skin and see every little shaved hair of the stubble lining his jaw. And she could feel the heat from his body, the unnatural dragon-fire coursing through his veins, and it engulfed her fully. Her every sense was buzzing and alive and filled with him, and she felt dizzy and constricted. It was near intoxicating.

She stood there foolishly frozen in front of him, wavering, unable to clear her mind or pull her gaze away from his.

And his eyes had turned again, not yellow this time, but the playfulness had burned away and was replaced by something more intense.

Something changed then, she could feel it. Something in the air, in the space between them, shifted slightly, or pulled maybe, and she nearly lost her breath. That look nearly ignited every nerve on her body.

And then she wanted to touch him again, to feel his warm, tanned skin against her own. She realised with a start that she’d _always_ wanted that, and he’d seemed so distant before. But now he wasn’t. What was keeping her from closing the gap, from reaching out and touching his arm like she’d done so many times before?

But she was not sure it would be so friendly if she were to touch him now. And what terrified her deeper than realising that was that she didn’t know, once she felt him, if she would stop at his arm.

She didn’t think she would. Didn’t think she _could_. She was petrified.

He must have sensed her uneasiness because he smiled and reached out to her, touching her hand.

And just like she’d done before, she pulled her hand away liked she’d been burned, because in a sense she _had_ been. His fingers were too hot and too gentle and the heat sparked up her arm from that spot and, this time, _actually_ ignited every nerve in her body, from deep in the pit of her stomach right to the tips of her finger and toes.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, pulling his hand back almost as fast as she had. He looked away, unable to face her, and she could see his cheeks burning up just like her own. “I guess I didn’t – sorry,” he repeated. “It – must be the ale,” he laughed, such a fake laugh that, under differing circumstances, she would have made fun of him. But she couldn’t now.

And whatever hung in the air between them fizzed and went out like a spark to water.

“Yeah,” she fake-laughed, too, taking a step back from him. “I guess.”

He wasn’t looking at her. He was pointedly looking at the night sky, at the ground, down the cobbled street, anywhere but her.

“Well,” he said after an unbearably long silence, running his hand through his short brown hair again. “I guess we should, ah… head to bed, then,” he said stiffly.

“Oh. Right,” is all she could say. Her mind was still plagued with thoughts and of what just happened.

“Got a long day tomorrow. Is – ah, is everything packed?”

“I did it this morning.”

“Ok. Well. Good night then, I guess.” He opened the door to Breezehome and walked in.

“Yeah. Good night.”

And later that night, as she lay in bed wondering what could have been, what _could_ be, and berating and hating herself, she heard the click and creak of his bedroom window opening and his soft footsteps on the straw roof.

He didn’t come back until sunrise.


	9. Haunting

**A/N: Hey guys! I’ve returned from the dead, a second time! Really, though I am sorry. I have actually been writing and rewriting this chapter over and over again over the past few months. Seriously. You have no idea how many shitty versions of “Oblivious, Chapter 10” are sitting on my hard drive right now. Major writer’s block, indeed.**

**So, quick story time: I got tired of all the aforementioned shitty chapters and decided to hop back into Skyrim after no less than a year and a half. I was walking around near Whiterun with Meeko the dog and Kharjo the Khajiit (probably my all-time favourite companion, besides Lydia, of course), harassing mammoths and sabre-cats, setting things on fire, you know. Typical Skyrim stuff. When out of nowhere the cultists from the Dragonborn DLC show up. I mean, I’ve no idea why I got them a second time, but yeah, I did. So we are fighting them, and winning, when, again, out of nowhere a seriously pissed-off giant comes crashing over and sends Kharjo flying off the map with his club. It was the most hilariously epic thing I’ve ever seen. I know that that’s a thing, but I never actually saw it happen in my game before. And a lightbulb came on and I thought to myself “you know, that must be a sign from the Divines – a second round of cultists, an extremely irate giant, and a flying cat.”**

**And thus this somewhat random, bottom of the barrel chapter was born.**

**Hope you at least enjoy it, and I’d really appreciate any feedback you have! Thanks so much guys! Remember, your support means so much!**

* * *

 

“You there! You’re the one they call Dragonborn?”

The cold, hard voice wrenched Lydia from her reverie and she blinked, looking up from the rocky ground and just barely avoiding running into her Thane who stopped dead in his tracks ahead of her.

She blinked again, fighting against the blazing autumn sun, to the figures blocking their path. They were standing there in the knee-deep grasses of the plains. There were six, and they were large, and they were wearing masks of bone.  

How she nor her Thane managed to spot them before now was lost to her. The plains of Whiterun Hold were quite flat, for the most part, and it’s not like these men had even attempted to remain hidden or even inconspicuous. They looked like mages, perhaps, going by their long, plain, heavy-looking but well-made brown robes. But mages did not wear heavy gauntlets or boots, fashioned to look like scales maybe, not like these men were. Nor the eerie masks of bone that nearly sent a shiver down Lydia’s spine.

No, these were not mages. They were something different altogether, but despite her confusion, Lydia did know one thing for certain.

They were dangerous.

It seemed as though Cato thought the same.

“I – excuse me?” he asked sharply, taking a step back, motioning his friend to do the same. She obeyed without hesitation.

“You heard me,” a man growled, taking a small step forward. He was not the largest nor the most foreboding of the group, but that did not mean he was any less dangerous. “The Dragonborn. That you?”

Cato did not answer right away, no doubt sizing these men up, or perhaps looking for a way out. One of the men behind the de facto leader shifted impatiently, thick boots crunching in the frosty grasses, and turned his bone-masked faced to stare at Lydia. The mask looked like some crude tribal artefact to her, roughly in the shape of a dragon’s head, perhaps, though it was much more detailed and lacked any sort of painting or symbols she sometimes saw on the Forsworn masks. It seemed to have no eye holes, and she had no idea how the man could possible see past that sunken, time-weathered front. As chilling and hollow the mask was, she found herself unable to pull her gaze away.

“Depends,” Cato said warily, narrowing his eyes at the leader. “Who’s asking?”

“That is _not_ for you to know,” the man snipped, and Lydia judged he was Dunmer by his smooth, hard accent. He sounded like Cato’s friend Athis, though even that stubborn elf had more warmth than all these men put together. And, though it was a strange thing to notice, she nevertheless realised that the mask did not muffle the elf’s voice in the slightest. Probably the work of some dark magic. She shivered again.

“I see,” her Thane replied, and said no more.

Lydia noticed a slight movement in the small crowd of robed men, and her eyes darted to the man who had stared unflinchingly at her. His hand moved to a silver dagger strapped to his waist and Lydia’s heart leapt in her chest. They had come here for something and they were not leaving without it.

“I will ask you one more time,” the Dunmer pressed, taking another step forward, and Lydia could see his breath rush out from beneath the mask in the cold air. This time Cato did not back away. “Are you or are you not the Dragonborn?”

Lydia did not know what to do. She knew these men were dangerous - she could feel the cold menace simply rolling off of them in waves. But she wasn’t dumb, and she knew there were simply too many for her to take on herself.

So she just stood there, watching the robed men in masks threaten her Thane while she felt the eyes of the other staring her down from behind that old bone mask once again.

“No,” said Cato suddenly, donning a wry smile. “No, I’m not.”

The Dunmer took a step back and in less than the span of a heartbeat, almost before Lydia knew what was happening, pulled out a curved, wicked-looked scimitar. The other men behind him did the same, blades hissing from their sheaths as one, the sound clear and cool in the crisp autumn air, though they all sported the small silver daggers and one of them pulled a staff from his back.

The elf pointed his scimitar at Cato, who evidently had not been as surprised as Lydia by the sudden change of atmosphere. His new sword, Eduj, was already pointed toward the masked man as well, the ancient grey blade glinting in the bright sunlight, his face cool and collected.

“Your lies fall on deaf ears, Deceiver!” the Dunmer hissed, tightening the grip on his sword. “We know you are the False Dragonborn!”

The men behind the elf slowly started to spread out behind their leader. One still turned to Lydia, his invisible gaze burning hers as he crouched down to edge closer to her.

“Well,” Cato sighed, “I expected as much.” He risked a glance to his Housecarl and smiled wryly again. “At least we get to try out our new weapons.”

Lydia couldn’t help but smile back as she unsheathed Okin, Kvenel’s ancient war axe. _Her_ war axe, she supposed.

 _“Silence!”_ the elf spat, raising his sword higher. “You _shall not_ stand in the way of the true Dragonborn’s return!”

“What are you saying? _I_ am the true Dragonborn,” Cato asserted, raising his grey sword to match the Dunmer’s. “There is no other.”

 _“Lies!”_ he hissed, and Lydia saw the mage behind him conjure up a ball of blue flame, letting it rest in his open palm. “Lies that have already taken root in the hearts of men!”

The elf took a step to the side, and he eerily reminded Lydia of a sabre-cat encircling its prey. Cato refused to be played like this, and stepped to the side as well, keeping the man right in front of him. “So we shall expose them to the falseness in their hearts by tearing out yours, Deceiver! Tearing it out, and we shall offer it to Him when He comes!”

Cato snorted. “A bit dramatic, no?”

The elf snorted back. “No,” he seethed, “and your glib won’t save you. The True and First Dragonborn comes, and you are but His shadow. A weak, pitiful fraud! You are not even Nord.”

“What? _Really?_ I hadn’t even noticed,” Cato said dryly, causing the elf to stiffen in anger. “This changes everything.”

“It changes _nothing_ , Deceiver. When Lord Miraak appears all shall bear witness. None shall stand to oppose Him!”

And then, with a wild cry to match that of a dying sabre-cat, the elf raised his scimitar and sprinted towards the Imperial standing before him.

Whatever happened next was lost to Lydia’s memory as the masked men scattered in the grasses before her and time passed in a blur of magic-colours and screams and the sound of steal ringing upon steal.

She remembered, though, that almost immediately she managed to get in a kill. One of the men tried to get behind her, no doubt eager to slip his daggers into her neck, but she swung her axe out and lodged it in his side, right between his ribs. The sickening sound of crunching bone followed the dull _whup_ the axe made as it crashed against the heavy leather robe, as it connected to her mark.

And then she saw it.

Small tendrils of ice, it seemed, almost like the frost one finds growing on glass on cold mornings, sprouted and crept along the man’s brown robes like some sort of ivy. It didn’t go far, and it wasn’t that big, but it was enough for her to notice. Her eyes widened in surprise.

The man grunted in pain and dropped his dagger, but before he could even put a hand to his wound she had pulled out her axe and ended his life in one swift motion that easily removed his head from his shoulders.

She ignored her victim and the raging battle around her and took a moment to stare at the axe. Despite the ages this weapon had seen, it still proudly showed its timeless blade etched with dragons and men and two spheres of different sizes she could only assume were the silhouettes of Masser and Secunda. Funny, but she had never taken the time to really examine the artwork, though she guessed during the heat of battle was a less than appropriate time.

It shimmered a deep blue as the ancient enchantment flickered beneath the engraved steel, and Lydia could only guess that some sort of ice or frost spell had been embedded in the war axe long ago in a time when dragons ruled over men and magic was wilder and darker and much more mysterious.

She truly was lucky to be holding such a weapon, let alone using it and calling it her own. It had not been a gift, per se, but she had not received something so special in such a long count of years. And Cato had given it to her, despite her protests. He had seen how much it meant to her. She smiled warmly.

Another masked man, this one a hulking war brute who was stretching his robes to their limit, and most definitely a Nord, cried out in anger as he witnessed the execution of his comrade. He bellowed and charged headlong at Lydia and she couldn’t help but notice how very odd the giant of a man looked wielding a tiny silver dagger when he would have looked much more at home with a massive greatsword or warhammer.

And his lack of skill with a dagger showed as he swung it about wildly. Lydia was no expert when it came to daggers but she had seen Cato use them enough to know that the man had no idea what he was doing. She delivered a swift elbow to his chest, winding him and causing him to stumble a bit, before she easily dispatched him with a side-step, dragging the war axe across his middle, and sending little sprouts of ice across his torn and blood-stained robe. He was dead before he hit the ground.

“Lydia! I can’t – help - !”

She spun around and wildly searched for her Thane, heart pounding, blood roaring just beneath her flushed skin, eyes darting around the battlefield wildly.

She couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see _anything._ A white vapour, or a mist, maybe, obscured most of the battlefield like a fog, and she could only just make out the dark shapes moving in them, swirling and shouting within. She saw the faint flashes of magic-fire.

 _“Cato!”_ she called out desperately, frantically scanning the field. Nothing.

It was eerie. Unnerving. Not five minutes past had they been trodding through the bright, clear plains of the Hold. One could see for kilometres on a clear day like this. Now, though, she could hardly see a few metres in front of her. Despite the sounds of battle roaring on just beyond her vision, she felt utterly alone.

Her heart dropped like a stone in her chest and a violent lance of hatred for herself tore through her like a hot blade.

_How could I let him out of my site? Why wasn’t I paying attention? Why couldn’t I –_

“LOK VAH KOOR!”

_Clear Skies._

Cato’s Shout cracked through the air and Lydia could feel its power surge through her chest like a bolt of lightning. She closed her eyes against the deafening sound, and when she opened them, the mists had cleared, for the most part, though they were rising again from the grasses like mist on a lake around the feet of the duelling Imperial and the Dunmer.

“Lydia!” Cato cried, his voice hoarse and raspy from the Shout, “the mage! _Get the mage!_ ”

And then she saw him again, backed up by a lone twisted birch, fervently parrying the Dunmer’s wild blows. He was desperately trying to keep the elf’s dagger-wielding companion in his sight, and the whole time attempting to keep out of the mage’s firing range. Streaks of red-hot flames blazed through the air from the man’s hands and his twisted, dragon-shaped staff and narrowly missed him time and again. The parched grasses near Cato’s feet, despite being covered in thick frost, hissed and caught fire here and there, sending wisps of vapour into the air like a mist and no doubt making it hard for him to see again.

The mage needed to go.

Lydia tightened her grip on Okin and, with a harsh cry and barely a moment’s thought, tore towards the mage, boots crunching in the grasses and swirling the vapour around her feet.

She knew she’d made the mistake of crying out because the mage turned to face his adversary in time to stare at her from behind the eerie, eyeless mask, conjure up a ball of flame, and send it flying towards Lydia’s chest.

Lydia faltered and closed her eyes, waiting for the pain to come, for the fire to scorch and blister her flesh, but it didn’t. By the grace of some Divine, she had been spared. The flames still hit her like a brick, though, and squarely on her breastplate, licking up the sides of her steel armour and across the exposed skin of her neck. She would have cried out in surprise but she had been winded from the sheer force of the spell and no words came to her. She fell roughly to her knees and brought her hands up to her face reflexively, stopping the fire that wasn’t there.

“Lydia!” Cato called out, pure fear lacing his tone. Of course he wouldn’t have known she was fine.

The distraction was enough for the mage. He conjured up another fire ball in his palm and Lydia looked up then to her Thane, just in time to watch the mage send it racing through the air towards the Imperial.

Cato saw the fire and tried to duck out of the way, but the growing mists hid the Dunmer with the scimitar. He crashed into the man and cried out in pain as the spell blasted against the whole left side of his torso.

He dropped to the ground hard and he didn’t get up.

 _“No!”_ Lydia roared, ignoring the pain and her axe, heaving herself off the ground and tearing after the mage.

Lydia knew the man saw his death in her eyes. She could only imagine how absolutely terrifying she must have looked then, charging toward him like some deranged beast through the mists, and how very frightened he was as she crashed into him and dragged him to the ground at the base of a lone pine tree.

The mage lost his grip on his staff as the two of them tumbled brutally to the ground, bits of hard earth and grass sprinkling down around them, and Lydia felt it dig into the skin of her hip between her heavy cuirass and faulds. It didn’t matter. She didn’t care. All she cared about was ending this man’s life, and it didn’t matter how.

The mage scrambled to escape the snarling warrior, but he was pinned against the tree and Lydia had a tight grip on his scale boot. She pulled him back to her and flipped him on his back roughly.

With a feral cry she ripped the bone mask off of the man and threw her armoured fists into his face again and again, ignoring his desperate pleas and cries of pain. He flailed around wildly, trying to throw her off him, but she was relentless.

“You _bastard!_ ” she snarled. The man’s desperation intensified, his hands reaching for Lydia’s face, slapping and clawing. Finding some purchase, his hand pushed up against her nose, and his nails managed to scratch deep and long across her cheek. Lydia pulled her face away and she continued to pound his face relentlessly.

The smell of blood and fire and smoke assaulted her nose. The mage tried to shout, possibly trying to call out to his fellows for help, but it came out as a muted, strangled bellow, blood gurgling up and spilling over the side of his mouth into the grasses and tangle of roots. Her gauntlets connected swiftly with his nose, and she heard the sickening crunch and felt his face give way at the exact same moment.

There was a fire burning inside her, sweltering and smouldering madly like the mage’s fire had, and the blood roaring in her ears was almost deafening. She could think of nothing, _nothing,_ other than the mage and her own raging inferno of pure boiling hatred. It was mounting, mounting higher, threatening to explode. She could not even remember why she was killing him. Little flecks of his blood landed on her cheeks, but she didn’t notice. It didn’t matter. She didn’t care.

Her head was throbbing torturously and her neck was stretched to the limit, trying to pull away from the thrashing. When she took a fist away to battle the man’s flailing hand, the mage bucked up wildly in a last desperate attempt to throw Lydia off. She lost her balance for a moment and the man’s hand turned to a fist, clouting her solidly across the face. Light-headedness overcame her and she nearly saw stars. She fought against the swooning and reached down again to ruthlessly beat the man.

 _“You bastard!”_ she screamed again, throwing her metal fists into his cheeks and nose and mouth. She ignored the stretching pain in her neck, and the sting of the cut on her cheek, and the fact that her world was tinged in red. Her knees were digging into a twisted knot of roots and she was sure they would be bloodied tomorrow. So would her knuckles. She was beating the man _so_ hard. But nothing could pierce her maddening haze. It didn’t matter. She didn’t care.

And then the man stopped struggling.

Lydia’s gauntlets were covered with thick, fresh blood that was not her own. She stopped her assault, heaving in deep, heavy breaths, and blinked away the hate-filled tears in her eyes so she could see the face of her enemy.

He was Imperial. Despite the bloody, meaty mess that Lydia had reduced his face to, she could still tell. She had been around Cato long enough to know one when she saw one.

Almost involuntarily, she slipped off the body and scrambled back, her bloody hands slipping in the cold grasses and leaves. She half expected the man to stand up and charge her again, but he didn’t. The body lay there in the grass, a dark shape resting awkward and still and twisted between the roots. The dying mists swirled around him ominously. The pine rose high behind him, thrusting up into the endless sky like a gravestone.

She put a hand to her mouth in silent revulsion. Her world reeled violently and she had only a moment to be thoroughly horrified before she heard a tremendous roar and splitting _crack_ behind her.

“Lydia!”

And then a pain such as she’d never felt before tore through her body like a crack of lighting. The world spun and tumbled and lurched, and she only knew she had been thrown through the air like a rag doll after she crashed ferociously to the ground in a heap of dirt and blood and bent armour.

Being kicked in the stomach by a ghost had been mere child’s play to this.

She gasped, having the wind knocked out of her for a second time, and agony blasted through her chest. Ignoring an absolutely splitting headache, and still gasping for breath, she shook her head and blinked again and again, desperately trying to see, but the world was fuzzy and colourful and tinged in red. She had no idea if she was facing the ground or the sky, or even if her eyes were open at all. She coughed once, a fountain of blood spilling from between her lips and she almost choked on it, her insides searing in pure agony. She had landed awkwardly with one leg tucked under the other, she thought, but she could not be certain. She groaned.

The sounds of battle droned on in the background, distant and echoing and thrumming in and out of focus.

She blinked again and she could see. Very little. Just shapes and colours through the hazy mist. Or maybe not the mist. Hadn’t she killed the mage? She couldn’t remember.

She tried to feel around her, to get a rough bearing of where she was, maybe to pull herself up off the ground a bit.

A shooting pain blossomed through Lydia’s right arm and she collapsed, her face rushing up to the hard, cold ground, her cheek connecting sharply with a rock or a root. She blink again, and through the reddish, frost-covered grasses she could see her arm bloodied and twisted at an odd angle before her. It was broken.

Her stomach lurched and she coughed again, more blood gurgling up. She spit it onto the grass and closed her eyes, shutting out her torment and the world around her.

It took a little while, but she felt the strength leave her body, ebbing away slowly and evenly like the low tide. Like the waning twin moons, like the sun going down. A warm numbness spread from within her, a soft weight on her chest, and her head felt fuzzy, as if it were stuffed with cotton. The sounds of battle became distant, thick and pasty and blurred, as if she was submerged under water. She swallowed and could no longer taste her own blood. She couldn’t even feel herself bleeding any more. Despite all this, her heart lashed wildly against her ribs like a bird in a cage, as if it knew it had little time left and was determined to fulfil a lifetime’s beats before the end.

Is this what it felt like to die?

If so, it wasn’t all that bad. She could handle it. She could let the pain go. It would be easy, now. And she wasn’t afraid. She would have smiled at that thought if she were capable.

The sensation of being pulled back by someone, or something, pierced her hazy thoughts. A new lance of searing pain split through her arm and chest, but she was too exhausted to care anymore. If anything, she was a little bothered. Who had caused her more pain so close to the end? It was not fair.

The hands hauled her away, away, far away from the place in the grass where she should have died, and the last thing she remembered was thinking was how warm the hands felt against her bloodied, dying flesh.

 

* * *

 

Lydia awoke.

It was dark. It was cold. It was snowing. A small fire was blazing not three feet from her head, and she could see nothing past it. She had no idea where she was. She had no idea what had happened. Hell, she didn’t even know if she were _alive._

She blinked and swallowed, her mouth parched, and tried to sit up.

  1. Yes. She was most definitely alive. Pain arced through her arm and it throbbed heavily in her skull. She was stiff and sore and so very, very tired.



She glanced down to her arm after the pain receded. It had been bandaged decent enough, not by anyone with major skill, but it would do. Littles blotches of red seeped through the brown fabric here and there, though most of it was dark and crusted.

What had happened to it?

“Hey, you’re finally awake! Thank the Eight, I was getting pretty lonely here.”

Lydia jumped at the sudden sound of her Thane’s voice and peered across the fire, heavy eyes squinting.

He was there, sitting on his bedroll and smiling at her, and Lydia didn’t think she’d ever been happier to see anyone in her entire life.

“And, just to get this out of the way, ‘cause I know you’ll ask about it later – yes, I took your armour off, and yes, I left your underclothes on. And I did not peek.”

“You –” she coughed, throat dry and raspy, abandoning her smile. “You’re alive.”

Cato kept his smile but raised his eyebrows. “Of course I am. _You_ , on the other hand,” he said, rising slowly to his feet and stepping around the fire, “shouldn’t be.”

She swallowed dryly and pulled the furs closer as he sat down on her bedroll next to her, so close that she could feel the heat from his skin over that of the fire. He had his thick winter coat on, despite the fact that there was barely a light dusting of snow on the ground. She would have laughed if her throat were not sandpaper.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, eyebrows knit in gentle worry. She shrugged, wincing as the pain shot down her arm, and he leaned over to place an unbearably hot hand against her forehead. He sighed and smiled after a moment, dropping his hand. “Well, at least you’re a bit warmer now. You were so cold before.”

“I’m a Nord, you know.”

He smirked. “I know. And your pure Nordic stubbornness is what probably saved your life. You thirsty?”

She nodded and shifted a bit on the bedroll. The ground was rough and uneven, and despite her limited view of the campsite, she could tell Cato had tried to find the flattest piece to set her down. Didn’t mean it was comfortable, though, as some rock or stick was jutting into her back. She struggled to prop herself up on her elbow to avoid using her right arm.

“Careful,” he warned, handing her a canteen of water. “I tried the best I could to fix that, but it was pretty bad.”

“My arm?” she asked, taking a sip of water. It was warm and instantly soothed her throat and she realised Cato must have put it near the fire so she would not have to drink it icy. She smiled a bit at that.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling his coat closer to keep warm. “Used a _shitload_ of healing potions. Gods damn, Lydia. You owe me a good ten flasks of that shit.”

She smiled wryly. “So what happened, exactly?”

He gave her a confused look, blinking the snowflakes away. “You don’t remember?”

She shook her head, instantly regretting it as pain pierced through her skull.

“Did I hit my head?”

“I don’t think so,” he frowned. “I’m sure I got the worst out of the way, though it’s quite possible. Does your head hurt?”

She frowned in return. “Well, yes. I’ve got quite a good headache, but I don’t think I hit it on anything.” Lydia lifted her hand to gingerly touch at her head. Her face was surprisingly clean despite a long, deep scratch across her cheek, and her hair was no doubt a holy tangled mess, but she could feel nothing else.

“No,” she said, refusing to shake her head again. “Nothing.”

“Good,” he smiled, obviously pleased he’d been thorough in his care. “Though I’m surprised, really, after the beating you took.”

Her frown deepened. “Will you just tell me already?”

He smirked. “It was a giant.”

She blinked. “A – a what? _Giant?_ ”

His smirked widened and he nodded. “Yep. Big old nasty giant. Just walked right in the middle of the battle. Poor guy probably had no idea what was going on.”

Lydia stared at him in disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” she said incredulously. “A _giant?_ ” He nodded, brushing the snowflakes from his hair absentmindedly. She hadn’t seen a giant at all, hadn’t even heard one. “Are you playing me for a fool?”

“Ow, you wound me!” he smiled widely, showing his missing tooth. “Look at me, bleeding all over the place. You’re not very nice. I’m not lying, you know. Stamped one of those masked men right into the ground. It wasn’t pretty. Then he took a swing at you. Gods, Lydia,” he laughed, shaking his head in part amusement, part wonder. “You practically _soared_ through the air like a fucking bird! Never seen anything like it. We’d be out drinking in your name right now if you hadn’t broken your arm.”

Lydia frowned and lifted her bandaged arm to her face, inspecting it.

“Oh, it’s fine now. Well, not fine, I guess, but it’s not broken any more.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Not broken?”

“No.”

She touched at the bandaged arm gingerly, and while it still burned viciously and probably would for some time, she could tell it was not broken. It was straight and strong and felt brittle, as if the potions had somehow reversed the damage, drawing the splintered bits of bone back to their proper place.

That actually probably _did_ happen. She shuddered at the thought and was silently thankful she hadn’t been awake for it.

“I think it’ll be a bit tender for a while, though, so don’t go chasing after dragons anytime soon. You know,” he said, almost warily, forcing himself to look in her eyes. “I’m not sure if it’s ever going to get better. Or have the strength you once had, I mean. A break is a pretty big deal, Lydia.”

She looked away from him and to the fire. It crackled softly and spit up whenever a rather large snowflake landed on the bits of twisted, burning wood, and she blinked away unshed tears.

A warrior without a sword arm? She might as well be a horse with no legs, or a dog with no bark. It was humiliating. It was degrading. It wasn’t _fair_.

Her heart dropped like a stone in her chest. If she could not wield a sword, she could not properly defend her Thane. If she could not defend her Thane, she was not fit to be his Housecarl. The _one thing_ that gave her life purpose, what she was brought up to do from such a young age. She would probably be respectfully discharged from her position, shoved to the sidelines again, while she watched from the shadows as some new, capable warrior got to protect him and adventure with him and _be_ with him.

The thought passed through her like a cold, slick worm. It was very unpleasant, and he sensed her uneasiness.

“Hey,” he said softly, nudging her outstretched leg with his elbow. “If I could do it, I know for certain you can. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met, you know.” She looked up to his eyes, bright and soft and flickering in the firelight, and knew he meant every word. It made her heart ache. “I’m not just saying that. I know for a _fact_ that if I got bashed by a giant’s club and flew thirty feet in the air I wouldn’t be here right now.”

“It wasn’t thirty feet,” Lydia smiled, eyes still a bit watery and cheeks turning red.

“Hey, you didn’t see it!” he laughed. “It was _at least_ thirty feet!” He smiled at Lydia’s doubtful gaze. “Alright. Maybe not thirty. But it was pretty damn high. And pretty damn impressive. And me – I’m just some scrawny _Cyrodiilic rat_ ,” he said, in such a perfect imitation of that Aela woman that Lydia couldn’t help but smile a bit. “I’d have been bashed to pieces. It’s just one more thing we have in common, I guess, apart from our mutual hatred of dragons,” he said, nodding down to her bandaged arm.

Lydia was tempted to retort back, sarcastically of course, some other aspect the two of them had in common. But for the life of her she could not think of a single thing.

Was he really all that different? Was the fact that they now both had a useless arm the only element connecting them?

No, it couldn’t be. They were night and day, earth and sky, the Housecarl and Thane, but you can’t have one without the other.

“The giant got away, if you’re wondering,” Cato said, taking the water canteen and placing it back by the fireside. “You managed to royally piss him off, though, so I’d watch your back next time we’re out on the plains.”

“You didn’t kill it?”

“What?” he cried, throwing another log onto the fire. It caused little golden embers to swirl up and disappear into the vast inky sky above. “No. How could I? I was too busy dragging your ass out of there. By the way, you should probably invest in some lighter armour. I may be the Dragonborn and all, but seriously, Lydia, your armour probably weighs more than you do.”

She grit her teeth. “If you didn’t happen to notice, _my Thane_ ,” she said a little sharply, “that the fire spell didn’t manage to melt my face off, then you’re either blind or –” she stopped herself short, eyes widening in slight horror.

“Or what? _Stupid?_ ” 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, embarrassed at her outburst.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he said, waving her off. “I guess I have to give you that one. If we learned one thing today, it’s that steel armour deflects fire spells much better than leather.” He shivered a little in a small breeze that wafted past them. At her raised eyebrow, Cato pulled up the hem of his coat and his shirt a little to show her a nasty red burn. It was patchy and raw and bandaged in a few spots and Lydia nearly gasped when she saw it.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she said, sitting up fully now, not two feet from him. Her head spun a bit and the furs she’d been given fell down a little, but she didn’t care. “Why didn’t you use any health potions?”

He let his coat drop, his face showing that he clearly regretting letting her see that.

He shrugged indifferently and turned to stare at the fire, the snow falling softly down around him. “I gave them all to you.”

“Why?” she demanded.

He shrugged again, refusing to look at her. “You weren’t doing too well there for a while. You needed them more than I did. Besides,” he yawned, stretching a bit, “we’re only about a day’s walk from Rorikstead. It’ll be backtracking a bit, but still, we’ll make it to Solitude on time. Pick up some potions there.”

“Why did you do that?” she pressed, disregarding him. She ignored a snowflake that landed on her cheek and melted. “You could have died. It might be worse, magic-fire. It might get infected.”

He snorted, his breath showing in the colder air, and pulled his coat closer to him. “Why wouldn’t I have? I wasn’t about to leave you or anything.”

She frowned, unimpressed. “You should have.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he snapped, crossing his arms. “Of course I wasn’t going to.”

“My Thane,” she continued, ignoring him once again. “If you’re in trouble and it’s between getting out alive and save –”

“Come on, Lydia, enough with all the damned Housecarl bullshit. It’s getting old.”

Lydia gawked at him in shock that quickly turned to anger. “I don’t know what it’s like where _you_ come from, but in Skyrim _we_ have morals and honour and we _stick to them_.” She crossed her arms as well, staring him down. “I am your Housecarl and you are my Thane. If that means _you_ need to leave _me_ behind to get to safety, then that’s –”

“ _Stop_ ,” he growled, a severe frown on his face and a dark, piercing look in his eye. Lydia swallowed, taken aback. “Don’t even say that. Don’t you _ever_ say that,” he stressed, pointing a finger at her. “Don’t you realise how much you mean to me? This isn’t some Thane/Housecarl thing anymore. It’s more than that.” His frown softened a bit, as did his voice. “Gods dammit, you’re so thick sometimes. You’re my best friend, Lydia. Don’t you know? You’re not my servant, and you’re not my slave. You’re. My. Friend. I’m not going to leave you behind.” He frowned again, though it was smaller, sadder. “I wouldn’t know what to do if I lost you.”

Lydia didn’t know what to say. His words cut her deep. In a bad way just as much as a good way. No, maybe a bit more.

So she didn’t say anything.

He sighed, dejected. “Lydia, I’ll be fine. Really. I’ve survived worse. Hell, I have to suffer _you_ every day.”

“ _Ha ha,_ ” she quipped, not fully amused.

And so she let it go. But she was still not fully happy with him, despite all he had said.

They sat there together for a while in a somewhat amiable silence, Lydia staring into the flames, watching as the flakes of snow danced around the heat. Her head hurt much less than it had when she woke and while her aching body still protested every time she breathed, she found it was becoming a bit more bearable now.

She had spotted Okin leaning against her travel pack and a wave of relief flooded through her. She had thought it left behind. It was foolish of her, really, to drop it and run to the mage like she did, but she had been so… _angry_ at the time. She had thought Cato dead. Or at least badly hurt.

She glared over to him, and he was staring into the fire, lost in his thoughts like he so often was. He could really get under her skin sometimes. Really want to make her punch him. But then, in the same sentence, he’d say something like _I wouldn’t know what to do without you_ or whatever. Gah. She didn’t know whether she wanted to punch him or kiss him.

After some time she glanced up from the fire again to him and found he was looking at her, studying her. The flames flickered across his dark face and glinted off his dark eyes. Her chest tightened despite her irritation at him and her emotional fallout.

“Something’s on your mind. I can tell.”

She sighed. There was no use in lying to him. She was terrible at it and he would know anyways. He always did.

She hesitated, not sure where she was going with this, and pulled her knees up closer to her chest. Not all the way, for her body protested madly, but enough so she was comfortable. He shifted a bit to make room for her.

“There was – a man…” He nodded, encouraging her to continue. “Back at the fight. The mage, the one who did that to you.” She nodded vaguely down to where his burn no doubt chaffed painfully against his clothes. “I… I killed him, with my bare hands.” She turned away from him, ashamed. “He was an Imperial.”

“Ah,” he said, following her gaze to the fire. “I see.”

Lydia closed her eyes, knowing that Cato was waiting for her, but all she could see was flashes of struggling and blood and fire and mists. She could hear the man’s cries for help, could hear his desperate grunting. She could even almost feel his nose breaking against her knuckles.

Her eyes flew open again, terrified of what else she would see, what horrors she would remember. Tonight would be difficult. Tonight, and maybe all the other nights after.

“Do they haunt you?” she whispered after a long moment, breath forming in the snowy air. “The men you’ve killed?”

He looked up to her, his face almost sad.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. He shifted to get more comfortable, and they were shoulder to shoulder now. It was warm, comforting. “I’ve killed a lot of people. Done a lot of bad things. You know that.”

“They’re not bad if they’re necessary, Cato,” Lydia said, and it reminded her of that time in Riften, long ago, when he’d told her he hated killing the dragons.

“Are they?” he asked, shadows of fear flickering in his eyes. “Does that make it any easier? Is it easier to kill a man when he’s got a sword pointed at your heart and death in his eyes?”

“I don’t know,” she said, looking back to the flames. “I don’t think so.”

He followed her gaze. “I suppose, sometimes, that I feel great joy from their deaths. Maybe not joy, but something else. Satisfaction, maybe? No, not even that. Something, though. From knowing that they won’t kill anyone else. But do I _like_ killing?” He shook his head. “Never. Not once.”

“They say it gets easier, you know,” Lydia whispered. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

He let a moment of silence hang between them, and in the utter quiet of the night, the only sound was the beating of their hearts and the crackling of the flames. The snow dampened all else.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

She looked up from the flames to him, his eyes sad but glistening, and she knew he understood.

Yes, Lydia was afraid. She was afraid that with each passing day, each year that rolled by, she’d been growing colder, harder. Like the land she called home. And it terrified her that, no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to block it out, she would keep killing and killing until she was as cold and heartless as the men and mer she and Cato worked tirelessly to rid Skyrim of.

She was afraid of becoming a monster.

“I’m afraid of a lot of things.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “Me too, sometimes. But only a beast kills without feeling. And that’s _not_ something a beast would say. Remember that.”

She smiled a little, warmed.

“Thank you. I think I needed that.”

“Hey,” he smiled, grasping her arm lightly. “Anytime.”

Lydia smiled wider at him, and looked into his eyes. They were soft and brown and she’d always liked them more than anyone else’s. They were so different. So very _Cato._

She looked closer at his face and, funny, but she had mostly forgotten about his scars. They didn’t matter to her anymore. There was a few new scratches from today’s fight, but none deep enough that he could add to his collection. Right now, in the light of the fire, he looked handsome. And it didn’t matter that he wasn’t a Nord, that he wasn’t as built nor as strong as they were. It mattered because he was Cato.

Her eyes wandered down to his jaw and she saw the bruise there, the one she had touched not a few days ago. Despite everything that had happened, and every voice inside her head telling her not to, she still had the sudden impulse to reach out and touch it again, but she didn’t. She didn’t get the chance to.

Cato pulled her closer to him, still gripping her arm. She could feel his heat right through her shirt, could smell his skin. His eyes held that same intensity from before, back in Whiterun, and Lydia’s heart fluttered madly. The atmosphere, the space between them, changed again, almost like an electric current was pulsating between them. The hairs on her neck raised from it. She could hardly breathe. She couldn’t move. It didn’t scare her this time, and she didn’t pull away.

His hand gripped her arm tighter, and as he pulled her closer, he raised his other hand for a moment, hesitating, his breath ragged and uneven, before placing it softly on her jaw in almost the same way she’d done to him. It was too warm and rough but it felt _so nice_ and Lydia didn’t want him to let go, ever.

He leaned towards her, their breaths mingling in the cold air, his eyes intent on hers.

She was not scared. What was there to be afraid of? This was Cato, her greatest friend. She could trust him with her life. And she did, more than she had with anyone ever before. No, she was not scared. Not anymore.

She closed her eyes.

And then he pulled away.

Her eyes flew open in shock. It felt cold, hollow, where he had touched her face, and she reached a hand up to it as she watched him back away from her, eyes wary and pained but not like they had been. The ache in her heart threatened to overwhelm her. What had she done?

“Cato,” she breathed, surprised she could talk at all. “What was –?”

“I –” he cleared his throat, turning away from her, face blossoming a deep shade of red.

She didn’t know what to say. Her heart was still beating so wildly she was certain he could hear it. But she had to begin somewhere.

“Look, Cato, about – _that_ , about the other night –”

“It’s fine, Lydia,” he said, voice gruff and demanding. He was still not looking at her, but he was still so close. “It was nothing. Let’s not mention it right now. You need your rest.”

She frowned a little, shock still not worn off from the stark change in atmosphere. “No, it’s _not_ fine. It wasn’t _nothing_.”

He sighed and finally turned to face her. She didn’t think she’d ever seen his face this red before. “Look, I’m sorry. I meant nothing by it. Before, the other night, it - it was a long night and I was drunk and overtired and –”

“You didn’t mean it?”

It took more bravery than Lydia thought to keep her face level and her gaze locked on his.

Maybe it wasn’t fair. Maybe she was putting too much pressure on him. What did she expect him to say, anyways? It’s not like she’d ever given him any signals before. Anything that would remotely resemble anything near the level of attraction she had for him. Nothing.

Had she?

She swallowed. Maybe she had. She hadn’t, after all, realised his to her.

What if he said no? Oh, Gods, what if he said _yes?_

She almost smiled to herself, despite the situation. Which one was more oblivious?

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I – ah, well – I don’t… no. No. I mean –” he huffed in irritation. “Gods, Lydia, what do you want me to say? You can’t just throw something like that on me. I need – I mean I don’t – I, ah.” He sighed then, deep and long, his face turning a shade darker, if that were possible. “By the Eight, this is embarrassing. I’m stumbling over my words like a child. Lydia, I don’t – I don’t know.”

She didn’t say anything. What could she say?

“What do you –” he began, then his eyes widened, sudden realisation dawning on his face. “Wait. Did you _want_ me to mean it? Is that where this is going? Because –” he stopped short, swallowing, waiting, a new look in his eye. But he didn’t look away.

Lydia still did not know what to say. She _wanted_ to say something, _anything_ , but her mind simply refused to work.

“Say something, please,” he laughed awkwardly. “This is awkward enough as it is.”

“I – don’t know.”

“I – huh. Well, _that_ settles everything, doesn’t it?” He rubbed at his neck again, looking away. “Look, I’m sorry if I ever made you feel – _uncomfortable_ or anything. It wasn’t my intention. And I won’t – I won’t do it again. You’re my friend, and I won’t lose you over something stupid.” He turned to her again, a small smile on his face. “So, can we just get back to normal now, then?”

She nodded, swallowing.

_No! That is not what I want!_

“Good. Alright then. Yeah.” He rose slowly to his feet, not even bothering to stretch. The void he left beside her was raw and gaping, and she felt his absence almost more than his presence. Her heart ached again and she almost let out a sob. What was wrong with her?

“So. I’ll just be over here. Goodnight then.”

_Don’t leave!_

He disappeared from her view like only he could, away into the dark and the falling snow, and the hole in her heart was so large it felt like he had died.


	10. Of Monsters and Men

**A/N: Hello again my readers! I bring to you another chapter from the world of Skyrim!**

**I know I’ve said this before, but this time I mean it. The time you have all been waiting for has come. Really. Well, I’ll just let you see for yourself.**

**This chapter was the brainchild of SilentPony (a reviewer on FF.net), and I have been waiting for so long to write it. It is not the full one, and really, all there is is talking, but seriously, there is so much drama here I hope it makes up for that. So. Much. Drama. Hopefully not too much.**

**I’ve mentioned it in chapters past, but I’ll just let you know again: in my head cannon, Hrongar is Lydia’s father. I’m not really sure if she actually is, but it fits well enough with the story. And I took some artistic licence and made him anti-Imperial. It just works better.**

**I really wanted to explore Lydia’s past and her background a bit more, and this just seemed the perfect place to do so. Hopefully I do it justice.**

**Alright. I am really nervous about this chapter, I won’t lie. I pondered over so many parts of it, and I even considered scrapping the whole thing once. But, alas, this needed to happen.**

**I hope you guys enjoy it, and thanks so much, forever and a day, for all your support. It really means so much.**

* * *

 

“Why are we going there again?” Lydia asked with a frown, shielding her eyes from the brilliant midday sun as the two of them took the long, tiresome walk up the stone stairs to Dragonsreach.

“Not too sure,” Cato breathed, abandoning his attempt at taking the stairs two at a time. “The Jarl said he wanted to see us.”

“Us?”

“Yeah. Both of us. Said something _of great importance_ needed our attention. Said it couldn’t wait.”

“Hm,” she mused, watching as the Jarl’s Keep loomed higher ahead of them.

“Yeah. Sounds pretty dire,” he smiled. “Wonder if Pelagia lost his cows again.”

She couldn’t help but smile back, but she shut her mouth and turned away before she said anything stupid. She had been getting good at that lately.

The walk to Solitude had been a long, cold, and very _awkward_ one. Lydia did not mention _that_ night, and neither did he. She had limped along after him and he had acted as if nothing had ever happened.

Typical.

Honestly, she was glad. She was so awkward when it came to things like that. She couldn’t tell you what had happened, how she felt. She had no idea herself. Though she could feel that something was just… _not quite right._ Well, that was a lie. She knew exactly what was wrong. And it was there, like a small splinter in her flesh, hardly noticeable until something came up that would draw her attention back to it. Like a joke not told or a touch not given. She could feel the absence of it grow wider each passing day, like a wound not fully healed. And despite how good he was at covering things up, Lydia had been around him long enough to know he felt it too.

She cleared her throat and gave a strained smile. “Well, it better be important if the Jarl called us back from Solitude.”

Cato frowned. “Yeah,” he mused, “might need to have a word with him about that.”

They stopped to rest for a moment when they reached the large wooden platform at the top of the stairs – the stage before the Keep, Lydia had always thought. Cato leaned against the railing, looking out over the city, and Lydia did the same.

Whiterun was simply _crawling_ with activity today. She could see the towering domed roof of Jorrvaskr and a few Companions practicing out in the training yard. She watched as Braith chased Lars and Lucia down near the Gildergreen, and as a grumbling guard told that drunk – Brenuin, maybe – to go beg somewhere else, and as that robed madman down near the Talos statue preached his heart out to a non-existent audience. The stalls in the market buzzed as people, tiny as ants from where she stood, bartered and chatted, and she watched Hulda sweep the front porch of the Bannered Mare with a rather tattered broom. And, towering like a great jagged dragon tooth over all, the Throat of the World rose high in the distance, its snow-capped peak hidden in the clouds that forever seemed to shroud it. The grey water from the ducts roared out just beneath them, spraying mist into the air and landing coolly on Lydia’s cheek. The town smelled of dirty smoke and sharp tanning leather and fetid water, but Lydia breathed it in and smiled anyways.

This was her home.

“Hey, Lydia,” Cato began slowly, pulling her gaze away from the city. He looked unsure, wavering, and she smiled. “You know, whatever Balgruuf wants – whatever he’s going to make me do – you don’t have to come. I mean, well, you know,” he stumbled out when she raised her eyebrows, “only because we’ve been walking for a week straight and you must be exhausted. You haven’t really rested since your arm.”

She glanced down to her arm with a frown. The bandage had come off, finally, as she was tiring of the itchy brown fabric, but it was still a hundred nasty shades of blue and black. It hadn’t even started yellowing out yet. He was right, though. She should probably stay and rest. Maybe start working with a sword again, regaining the strength in that arm. Or learning how to use her other one.

But when was the last time she had listened to him?

“No,” she said, placing a hand on his forearm without thinking and squeezing lightly. “I will come. I will not leave you now.”

He glanced down to her hand for half a second before looking back up to her, and he smiled sheepishly after gazing perhaps a moment too long. It looked like he wanted to say something, maybe, perhaps about the last time she had touched him, and Lydia could not stop her heart from racing. But he must have thought the better of it. He looked away, back out over the city, but not before Lydia saw the red creep up to his dark cheeks.

She let go of him, remembering the other night, but she couldn’t help it. She smiled smugly.

Is that all it took to make him do that?

He coughed after a moment. “Well,” he said, nodding toward the doors, “best get this over with, then.”

They walked together toward the great wooden doors of the Jarl’s Keep, slowing down as they got closer. A lone guard nodded to them. Cato hesitated, only a moment, before he put his hand on the handle.

Lydia nodded and closed her eyes. Neither of them enjoyed coming here.

She heard him exhale sharply before he pushed the doors open, a gust of warm air almost blowing them over. 

“Ah! Dragonborn!”

A deep, thick Nordic voice boomed out in the high wooden hall, off the carved pillars and the high balconies, the sound mixing with the hazy air that lingered from the hearthfire. Lydia turned around once she had pulled the great doors shut and saw the Jarl descending the steps near his throne towards them, arms outstretched in a friendly way. “You have come at last!”

The hall was nearly empty. The long feasting tables had been pushed to the sides and cleared of plate and food, but Farengar, the court mage, was hunched over one end with a dying candle and what looked to be many scrolls and some rather thick tomes. Lydia could not even see a single guard or serving maid. It was eerily quiet.

“Ah, yes. Sorry,” Cato greeted, shaking the Jarl’s hand when he reached them. The Nord was dressed in his usual gaudy gold garb, scruffy yet at the same time well-groomed. He was at least a head taller than the Imperial and his pale hand dwarfed Cato’s tanned one. “We were quite a ways off in Solitude when we received your message. We got here as soon as we could.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” the Jarl brushed. He nodded politely to Lydia and she returned it. He turned on his heel, gesturing the two of them to follow up the stairs. Lydia refrained from raising her eyebrows again. Maybe they _wouldn’t_ be here for hours, then. “Being the Hero of Skyrim can be quite taxing, I imagine.”

“Ha. That’s one way to put it, I guess.”

“I don’t know how you do it, Dragonborn. I can barely keep up with the business of Whiterun, what with the Civil War and dragons running amok. Or flying, I suppose.” The Jarl paced briskly ahead of them, clearly determined. Farengar looked up as the two of them passed, squinting behind a seeing glass, and he gave Lydia a warm smile. She returned it as well. She had not seen the kindly robed court mage in too long. She had missed his smile.

The Jarl stopped when he reached his throne, but he did not sit down. Proventus, his Imperial advisor, darted over from nowhere and began fervently whispering something in his ear. He looked comically tiny beside the great warrior of a Nord, but if he was anything like Cato, she knew why the Jarl kept him around.

Irileth stood a ways off, near the Jarl’s throne, her face in a permanent frown as she watched them both with her red eyes. She didn’t even acknowledge Lydia or the Dragonborn, and that was fine with her. The elf frightened her at times.

And, standing off in the same shadowy corner like he always did, was the Jarl’s younger brother and own personal Thane, Hrongar. Lydia’s father.

Lydia’s heart skipped a beat but she nodded to him stiffly. His frown deepened, though he nodded back nonetheless.

There were too many eyes here. Always watching, always waiting for someone to slip up, be caught, be thrown under the wheels. She had never truly felt comfortable here, or anywhere in the city, really. There was always an air of urgency, the palpable presence of more important things needing to be done. She could feel it now, like a heavy weight pressing down on her chest. It was difficult to breathe. It was like that here. Except perhaps Breezehome. It was quiet there. No eyes.

“Yes, yes, Proventus, I’m well aware,” the Jarl whispered loudly, drawing Lydia’s attention back to them. The advisor frowned but pressed on. The Jarl, though, was done.

“Well,” he started, turning from his advisor, who gave him a rather harsh glare behind his back. “As you both are now certainly aware, there is an… issue, I would say, that needs tending to.”

He sauntered back up to his throne and seemed to collapse in it. Lydia noticed he looked rather haggard and that he had dark rings around his eyes. He looked much older, too, as if the years had finally caught up with him. When was the last time she had seen the man? Maybe it was simply a trick of the light. Proventus took his place beside the throne, his scowl not yet gone.

“It is rather urgent, and I understand that you have other duties, Dragonborn, so I will not tarry longer.” He leaned forward in his chair and sighed, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. “One of our citizens, Danica Pure-Spring, has been taken.”

Irileth shifted uncomfortably and Proventus crossed his arms. Lydia’s heart dropped like a stone. Danica? Oh gods, _that_ was not good.

“I’m – I’m sorry,” Cato began, almost apologetically, his voice echoing in the silence. “Who’s this Dana?”

 _“Danica,”_ Irileth scowled in her smooth Dunmer voice, red eyes narrowing down at him. “She is a priestess here in Whiterun.”

“And the head healer at the Temple of Kynareth,” Proventus offered, arms still crossed. “So, as you can imagine, her absence is quite… troublesome.”

“Yes, thank you both,” Balgruuf said tersely, turning back to his audience. “Now, because Danica was a healer at the Temple – which, and I’m sure you well know – is a religious faction and falls under the City of Whiterun’s jurisdiction, and considering the fact that such a prominent citizen was taken right off the streets, it falls to the Council and thus the Thane to– ”

“Let me guess – you want me to fetch this Danica for you, right?” Cato interrupted.

Lydia glared daggers at him for speaking out of turn but he didn’t seem to notice. And the Jarl didn’t seem to care.

He nodded solemnly. “Yes. That is correct.”

Cato nodded as if he knew this all along. “And I apologise, but, if I may ask, my Jarl – why did you need _me_ to bring her back? Why send for me all the way in Solitude? Surely a few mercenaries could track a group of bandits across the plains.”

“Did you not hear? Danica is too important to be left in the hands of some greasy-fingered thugs,” Proventus glowered, and Lydia could have sworn he mumbled something along the lines of _not that this is any better._ Or something like that.

The Jarl nodded tiredly. “And we have reason to believe these are not mere bandits.”

“No?” Cato asked, interest piqued. “Then what are they?”

No one answered. An uncomfortable silence swept the room. Balgruuf shifted in his throne and Proventus coughed awkwardly. Cato looked from face to face, each one turning away.

“What are they?” he repeated, slower this time.

“We… are not yet certain,” the Jarl began slowly, “but we believe the men responsible for the capturing of Ms. Pure-Spring to be… _cultists_.” He said the last word bitterly, like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Cultists?” Cato asked lightly, surprising the Jarl. “Well, that shouldn’t be too hard then. We just had a run-in with some cultists not a week ago. Came out of that one _almost_ whole, didn’t we?” He smiled to Lydia who self-consciously hid her purplish arm behind her back.

“Then you know how dangerous they are, and why they are no laughing matter,” Irileth droned, her fiery eyes staring down the Dragonborn.

The Jarl sighed. “I am loathe to say it, but you are correct, Irileth. The presence of cultists in the Hold is troublesome indeed. They are nothing more than irate fanatics. They do not listen to reason. Madness is their creed.”

Lydia knew Cato was too curious to let this go. “Forgive me, but seems as though you have experience, my Jarl,” he prompted, barely withholding the eagerness in his voice.

Balgruuf smiled bitterly. “Indeed I have, Dragonborn.”

“My Jarl,” Proventus pressed, leaning closer to the man, “may I remind you we are severely limited in our –”

“Yes, yes, I know, I know, ‘make it quick’.” The Jarl brushed back his advisor, maybe a little annoyed. The Imperial backed away but looked pleased with himself. Balgruuf straightened up a little and cleared his throat. “So, Dragonborn – what say you?”

Lydia felt the eyes weighing down on them now, more clearly and heavier than before, and she shifted where she stood, playing with her gauntlets. She knew her friend felt it too. “I – wait, wait,” Cato said, shaking his head slowly. “Hold on. Where’d she go? Who are these cultists? Cultists of _what?_ Why’d they take her?” He crossed his arms and eyed the Jarl sceptically. “There’s a lot here that isn’t adding up.”

“So curious, you are,” the Jarl smiled tiredly. “Whether that plays out for good or ill, in the end, remains to be seen. But all in good time, of course. Farengar here will –”

A thundering crack echoed through the hall as the doors to the Keep were thrown back against the stone. Lydia jumped, alarmed, and twisted around to see who had startled her so.

“Ah, of course. I nearly forgot,” the Jarl said, gesturing to the doorway where the light streaming in almost blinded them all. Lydia hadn’t realised how dim it was in here, and she blinked as a rush of cool air wound its way through the hall and washed over her. “Just in time. Welcome, Companion.”

Cato whipped around to the door and squinted in the light and Lydia could not help but smile as she watched his face light up akin to that of a child’s.

The Companion slammed the great doors shut, plunging the hall back into a hazy state of semi-darkness and causing the few candles scattered around to flicker. They strode across the hall, iron boots clinking heavily on the wooden floor.

“I took the liberty to engage the services of the Companions as well, Dragonborn. I am told you have had dealings with them in the past, so they agreed to send someone. You will not be going alone.”

Lydia watched Cato’s smile grow wider, saw him barely able to stay still with excitement… and then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the smiled was wiped clean from his face.

The Companion, a lithe figure donned in Nordic armour with a hunting bow upon her back and a dagger strapped to her boot, stopped in mid-stride and mirrored the horrified, perturbed expression on the Imperial’s face before her piercing wolf-like eyes narrowed in disgust.

“You?” Aela scoffed, not bothering to hide her contempt. “They want me to go with _you?_ ”

Lydia watched as Irileth’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“I could say the same thing,” Cato finally responded, pulling himself out of his initial shock. He crossed his arms again, and Lydia subconsciously inched closer to him, her hackles already raised as she glared at the Huntress. The woman’s mere presence left a bad taste in her mouth.

“Indeed,” Aela seethed, her cold eyes nearly sending a shiver up Lydia’s spine. “My Jarl,” she said, turning to Balgruuf with a slight bow, “the Companions appreciate your trust and concern – however, I am afraid I must decline your offer. Clearly there has been some mistake.” She shot a look in Cato’s direction, crossing her arms in severe disapproval. He returned the gesture in time.

“There is no mistake,” the Jarl clipped, clearly displeased that she even had the audacity to question his motives. “And there will be no declining. I have not hired you so much as I’ve… _enforced_ the Companions to honour their treaty with Whiterun.”

“Treaty?” Aela ordered. “That treaty involves mutual aid for threats against the city. This hardly counts as a threat.”

“The head healer has been taken from the streets,” Cato said, glaring at her. “This _is_ a threat.”

“And what would _you_ know of such a treaty, Imperial?” she threw back haughtily, narrowing her eyes. “Your kind are good at breaking them, I hear.”

“My _kind_ –?”

“That will be all,” the Jarl warned.

“My Lord,” Aela almost pleaded, taking a step closer to the Jarl. “If you would allow it, I can return to Jorrvaskr and retrieve another Companion for you –”

“No,” he snapped, shutting her down hard. “There is no time. And I am told you are a respectable hunter and tracker, are you not?”

“Well, yes, but I –”

“I need a tracker for this mission. You are a tracker.”

“I am not the only one in the city, my Jarl,” she said bitterly between her teeth.

“You are a tracker and a Companion. This mission is too important for anything less.”

“If this is so important then you’ve done a good job at keeping it quiet,” she seethed. “I don’t see the Guard scrambling to help.”

“This isn’t a matter for the _City Guard_ ,” he said sharply. “This is a _Council_ decision and the _Council_ has decided to send the Thane and the Companions to retrieve our healer.”

“Ha! The Great and Wonderful Dragonborn?” she laughed, gesturing to the man beside her. “You think he needs our help?”

“You never seem to complain when a dragon is attacking the city,” Cato countered.

“My Jarl, you can’t be serious!” Aela cried, voice raising higher in her anger. “You cannot send me with him! Ask him, if you must – he does not want me along either!”

“Do not use that tone against me,” the Jarl warned, voice lowering dangerously. “I do not care what he thinks. And I do not care what you think. This conversation is over.”

“My Jarl –” she began, a dangerous cloud of anger forming on her face. Lydia remembered it only too well.

“Enough,” he growled.

“You – you _cannot_ just –”

“Silence!”

“I _refuse_ to be forced to go along with this – this – this fucking faithless _scib!”_

“Hey!” someone bellowed out, and then Lydia blinked when she realised it was her. Her anger rose in her throat sharply and it felt bitter, like the acrid taste of vomit, and she had to stop herself from heaving her fist in that woman’s ugly face.  

 _“Enough!”_ the Jarl roared, vaulting from his seat with a stormy look in his eye. Lydia hadn’t realised she’d stepped in front of Cato, protectively almost, until he gently moved her back out of the way. But she didn’t take her eyes off Aela.

What an awful, disgusting word. She was not surprised in the slightest the woman had said it.

“Enough of all this! You quarrel like a drove of unruly schoolchildren! Shameful! Simply appalling!” the Jarl bellowed, and the room grew too quiet. “You _will not_ utter that word in my hall again, Companion!” he snarled, pointing a finger to her. “I do not care what you think of Imperials but do not bring your misjudgements here! You insult more than one of my court with your foolish choice of words. I _do not_ tolerate that. Not even one from an Order such as yours. You do not cast the Companions in a good light. And _you_ ,” he growled, turning to Cato who, for the first time since Lydia had known him, looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. “Do not put words into my mouth. You may be Thane but that title is honorary. You know _nothing_ of Skyrim’s politics and do not parade around like you do.”

A silence such as Lydia had never experienced descended on the hall like a stagnant, vile haze, the thick film settling over the tables and chairs and people and casting a foul taste in Lydia’s mouth. Worse than vomit. Nobody spoke. Nobody dared move.

The Jarl took a breath as if to cool himself down and he let it out slowly, smoothing the front of his coat. “A citizen of Whiterun has been taken from the streets,” he began, kingly voice punctuating the smothering silence. “Our Thane will lead the rescue. His Housecarl will accompany him. And the Companion will escort. Do I make myself clear?” he said, pointedly looking at the Dragonborn.

“Of course, my Jarl,” Cato breathed, not looking the man in the face. “This will not be an issue.”

“Yes,” Lydia squeaked, surprised her voice worked at all.

Aela merely nodded stiffly, looking anywhere but in the direction of the Imperial beside her.

The Jarl eyed the woman a moment longer before turning back to his Thane. “Good,” he nodded, then motioned to Proventus, who darted over to his side and did not even conceal the contempt simply oozing from him as he glared at Aela. “Speak to Farengar,” he waved to his audience, clearly dismissing them. “He will brief you on the details. Good luck.” He turned to leave the hall, his Imperial advisor on his heel.

Lydia let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, but before she could simply breathe for a moment in this stuffy place, before she could follow Cato to where Farengar sat, surrounded by his scrolls and tomes, another voice, a familiar one, echoed around the hall.

“My Jarl,” Hrongar’s deep voice boomed out, stopping Lydia in her tracks. Balgruuf turned to his younger brother across the hall, a tired frustration still clearly etched on his face. “If I may have a moment with my daughter…?”

The Jarl’s eyes darted back to Lydia, whose breath all but left her body. She was certain she would suffocate. She tried to swallow but her throat was so dry. She was only vaguely aware of Cato standing right next to her, so close he nearly burned her skin.

The Jarl nodded. Lydia’s stomach dropped like a stone through the floor. She had been hoping to slip out before anything like this happened. When had luck been in her favour, though?

Hrongar nodded back to his brother. Lydia stepped up the remaining stairs on autopilot, throat still parched. She hadn’t even noticed Cato’s sympathetic glance as she left his side and trod a slow death march to that of her father’s.

Hrongar nodded silently to her as she approached, his face hard as carved stone, like it’d always been. He looked the same to her, and he wore the same battered, fur-lined armour she remembered as a child. He had grown balder, perhaps, during the later years, yet he still kept his beard long and trimmed and tied neatly near his chin. Sometimes she thought he cared more about his beard than anything else in the world.

Lydia opened her mouth to say something, anything, but no words came to her. She shut it dumbly.

Her father – such a strange word; when was the last time she had used it? – eyed her carefully, searching her face with his cold eyes, like two chips of ice, as if he was looking for something there. But his expression gave nothing away. Maybe that was where she’d learned it?

“It has been some time, Lydia,” he said finally, gruffly, looking her in the eyes now. Disappointed. A look she knew too well. “Too long, one might say.”

“I –” she began, then had to clear her throat. “I’ve been busy, I guess.”

Hrongar glanced over Lydia’s shoulder and frowned. “So I see. Come,” he said, and turned to walk up the stone stairs hugging the side of the hall.

Lydia swallowed and twisted to look behind her one last time. Irileth stood by the long table, hovering over Farengar who was feverishly pointing out spots on a map. Aela stood off to the side, arms crossed and expression grim. If looks could kill, the Huntress could have murdered an entire army. And Cato was there, pretending to listen as Farengar rambled on, but he wasn’t looking at him. He was looking to his Housecarl, and he smiled to her. She could tell it was meant to be encouraging but she could see past that, now. It was sad. _He_ was sad. Her heart ached and she smiled back. It was weak, she knew that, but she didn’t want him to worry about her.

She turned and followed her father up the stairs, wishing to be anywhere but here. Wishing more than anything that the two of them were back in Breezehome. Alone. With no Companions or Jarls or parents, no eyes watching them.

Her father led her across the landing behind the hall, past the war room where hung the broad yellow flags donning the heraldic horse of Whiterun, and out through the tremendous wooden doors that led out to the Great Porch. The rush of cold air caused her to gasp, but perhaps it had more to do with the room itself.

The ceiling arced high above their heads and ran the length of a dragon – which was exactly what this room had been built for. King Olaf One-Eye, High King of the First Era, had confined the great dragon Numinex here in ages past, keeping him in a form of humiliating imprisonment. His skull still hung above the Jarl’s throne to this day, a show of the power and mettle of the kings of old. A king whose blood ran in her own veins.

The porch opened up wide in front of them, offering an impressive view to the north. The mountains rose high into the sky before her, in a great line like the spine of the land, as if some vast beast had had simply lay down, never to rise again. They were covered in a rug of trees – yellow, scarlet, orange – though most were evergreens, their bare tops scarfed in snow. The mountains of Skyrim never truly lost their white caps, but she could spot, even this far away, waterfalls drifting like skeins of white nestled into the carved mountainsides. The land spread out like a great playing board before her, vast and yawning and free, and it was truly breath-taking.

She had always liked this room more than any other as a child, though it had frightened her to some extent. The view was so grand and so wide she had foolishly thought she would simply fall out into the sky. It had taken her so long to even approach the end and look over the side. Her brother had urged her to, long ago, and then he had laughed and grabbed her and made her believe, if only for a moment, that she would surely plummet to her death. It had taken her even longer the next time to walk through those doors again.

She smiled at the memory. She had not been here in years.

“So,” her father began, shutting the great doors with a loud thud, and Lydia had forgot he was there.

“So,” she replied, tearing her eyes away from the view.

They stood there facing each other again, and Lydia was at a loss for words. It seemed that was the only thing she was good at.

“You look different, Lydia,” he finally said, voice thick with his Nordic accent. “Older. You’ve filled out more. Grown into your armour.” He eyed her more intensely, more deeply, and Lydia was not sure it was a compliment. “You look so much like your mother.”

Lydia smiled sadly. She had no idea if that were true.

“So,” he said again, losing that look in his eye. “You finally come back after all this time and you try to sneak out without even so much as a hello to your own father?” Lydia’s heart froze for half a second before she saw the slight twitch of his mouth and realised her father had been joking. _Joking._ Had she ever heard him joke before?

“Yes,” she breathed out a shaky laugh, heart easing into normalcy. “I must apologise. It hasn’t been _that_ long, has it?”

He raised his eyebrows at her, the skin around his aged eyes crinkling. “Nearly three years.”

“Sir?” Lydia almost choked. “Three years? It’s been that long?”

“Aye,” he said, searching her face again. She didn’t like when he did that. Too many eyes. “Since that Imperial was made Thane. You walked out those doors and never came back.”

“Three years?” she repeated. She had known Cato that long?

He gave her a strange look. “That’s what I said.”

“I guess I _have_ been busy,” she mused. Three years? Almost three? She could not quite believe it. Where had the time gone?

It felt as if she’d known Cato for a day yet at the same time, a lifetime.

“That is what I wanted to talk to you about,” her father said, a frown on his face. He started pacing slowly toward the great opening, his boots clinking dully on the ugly yellowing carpet. She kept in stride with him.

Lydia felt like a child again, though she had not walked here like this with her father in such a long count of years. She could hardly remember a time when he did such things with her. It brought back memories sweet and bitter. She swallowed and glanced up to the ceiling. High above, no doubt rusted over and covered in dust, was the great contraption used to hold Numinex all those years ago, bolted into the stone.

“You say you have been busy,” he began, returning her gaze to him. “I do not doubt it. Being Housecarl to the Thane is an honour any one of your colleagues would grasp in a moment. The honour to guard with your life, and lay it down to protect the one you’re sworn to. You must be proud.”

“I am.” And she meant it.

“Do you know what my father used to say?” he pondered, staring ahead. “ ‘I am not a man. I’m a weapon in human form. Just unsheathe me and point me at the enemy.’ He was a cruel man with little in his life, but it is a wisdom that holds true over the ages. And more so for those of us that pledge our own lives.” He turned to her again. “You are a weapon, Lydia. A sword and a shield. That is all. There is no room in your life for anything else. You understand that.”

Lydia’s heart sunk. Of course she knew. It had only been drilled into her mind her whole life. She knew there was never anything else meant for her, nothing more than her years spent as a sword. She knew it, and yet…

“So tell me, then,” he mused, crossing his muscled arms, “what is so special about this _Thane_ that would keep you away for so long? Keep you so busy?”

“I –” she blinked, and for a moment, by the way his icy eyes pierced her own, she thought her father knew. Knew everything that had happened, everything she had said and did and thought about her Thane. Those things that had and almost had happened. Everything, even those things not so… tame.

Her cheeks flared red and he nodded, knowing. “He is the Dragonborn,” she rushed out. “Of course we are busy. There are dragons and bandits and cultists, now. There is always something needing to be killed.” She laughed a little but her cheeks still burned.

“I know you and the Imperial are close,” he said, bitterness seeping into his tone as he stopped his walking. “I can see it in the way he looks at you. You do not notice it, but it is there. He thinks of you as a comrade. A friend, even. Maybe more.”

Lydia swallowed again. “I – I can assure you that is not the case, Sir.” Oh, but it _was._ She was lying through her teeth, and her father could tell.

Now _she_ wanted to melt through the floor.

“Take me as you will, but do not take me as a fool, Lydia,” her father scolded. “I am not blind. I know you feel the same.”

Lydia did not respond. He resumed his pacing and she followed, more reluctant than before. They did not speak, but listened to the sounds of the fires crackling and the wild winds whistling off the stone. He was not a foot from her yet there was a bottomless chasm between them.

When they reached the end of the hall Hrongar stopped at the low stone wall and looked out over the land before him. Lydia blinked in the bright sunlight and her bewilderment at Skyrim’s beauty washed over her again.

“That pass there,” he said, pointing out at the mountains, “do you see it?”

Lydia squinted in the sun, scanning the distance, but the snowy glare made it difficult to see. Everything looked the same from up here. “Yes,” she lied, shielding her eyes.

“That is Weynon Pass.”

Weynon… she played with that for a bit, though she could not recall ever hearing it. A particularly strong gust of wind blew her hair into her eyes, and she brushed it aside.

“There was a garrison stationed there many years ago,” he began, staring off into the mountains. “Just a few men, but they were there. The Pass is only small but it winds through the mountains to Dawnstar. It cuts travel time by more than half, and it ends right here, right outside the city. So you understand why the enemy would want to gain control.”

Lydia’s lips thinned. She did not feel like hearing a lecture just now, but she dared not say anything.

“There was a young man there, a young soldier, younger than you. He thought himself brave for joining the Stormcloaks, for leaving home so young. And he was. He was a good soldier. He rose through the ranks and made himself a Sergeant. Ice-Veins. He had his men and he had his title, and his whole life was laid out for him.” Hrongar turned to her, his eyes hard and bitter. “But he was foolish. He made a grave mistake. Do you know what happened to him?”

Lydia chewed her lip. This story was quickly sounding familiar.

“A band of Imperials came upon them one night and slaughtered them all while they slept. Every single one. He had let his guard down, though he knew they were close. He trusted in their _humanity_. He tried pleading, he tried bargaining. They cried for mercy but they received none. The snow ran red that day with the blood of our brothers.”

He looked out at the mountains again and gripped the stone wall tight, tense as a lute string. Lydia’s heart began to ache, a slow, dull throb that only the loss of someone so close could create.

“The hearts of Imperials are black and cold as ice. Never forget that, Lydia. He may be Thane, but he is just the same as every other faithless coward from the Empire.” He turned to her again, his fists clenched, his anger bubbling just under his cold exterior. “He is not your friend. He does not love you, no matter what he says. Imperials are capable only of lies. He will use you if given the chance. They are the monsters you hear in the stories. _Nothing_ more.”

Lydia could only stare at her father, simply incapable of comprehending what he had just said. Something hot and painful churned inside her, roiling in the pit of her stomach uneasily, and she clenched her fists in order to keep it down.

“That Companion was right about one thing. The man is a _scib._ When the Empire surrendered to the Aldmeri Dominion, they shamed us all.” He looked deeply at her again, a steely look in his eye that frightened her right to the core. “I _will not_ have you shame me. Do you understand?”

“I –” she stuttered, “he’s not –”

“I do not care what he is. What he is not, however, is trustworthy. Do not make the same mistake your brother did.”

Lydia expected the pain and the hurt to hit her like a brick wall, like a blast of dragon-fire, but it didn’t. She felt strangely hollow inside, much like the day the letter had come, delivered by the shaking hand of some scrawny Stormcloak recruit. She remembered that day well. It was the day both her brother and father had died. She had been mourning their loss ever since, though it had been difficult when one of them still stalked the halls of Dragonsreach.

But then the anger came, slowly at first, like the embers of a fire catching hold. And, like a beam breaking through the trees, she saw her father in a blinding new light. He did not look strong to her any more. Had he ever? His age had begun to stoop him low, and the blood of the kings, the same blood running through her, crossed his old, gnarled hands in thinly-concealed veins. She felt like spitting. She was disgusted at him. At herself.

“I won’t,” she growled, menacing and low, looking him one last time in the eyes she knew would never love again. “He trusted _you_. That was where his fault lie.”

She turned from her father and the mountains beyond, and marched down the yellowing carpet to the great wooden doors. It took nearly everything she had to do that, and not to run and hide like she would have as a little girl.                                                                                         

 _He_ was the monster. He always had been. She hated this place, the Great Porch and the hall and everything in this gods-forsaken shithole of a city, down to the rats in the sewers and the weeds in the cracks. It had all been poisoned. Oblivion take them all.

She half expected her father to call out to her, make her come back, but he never did. She wouldn’t have listened anyways.

She threw open the doors and did not shut them. Let the wind snuff out the candles. She did not care. So much had already been taken from her.

How _dare_ he try to take Cato from her? Use her brother against her like that? To twist her views, poison her mind, on Imperials, on the Empire like he did? After everything he’d done? Everything he said? Let the man rot here, grow old by himself with nothing but his regrets as he stared at the mountain pass. He had already died long ago. She needed to let him go.

A sob rose unexpectedly from deep in her chest and she caught it before anyone heard it. Her heart bled and beat wildly in her throat, and she took a moment to catch her breath, leaning against the cool stone wall.

It was quiet. Nothing but the sound of the hearthfire and the wind whistling just outside. There was no one up here, no guard or maid, no one to watch her suffer. It had always been like this.

Time passed as it always did, and whether it had been a moment or a lifetime she could not tell. But it didn’t take long after that for her to regain some semblance of control. She couldn’t lose her head. If that man she called father had instilled one thing in his daughter, it had been that. His pure Nordic stubbornness.

She straightened up and took a deep breath. She felt dirty, unclean, like a sour apple just by being here. She needed to leave.

She made her way down the side stairs to the main hall, slowly, evenly, running her hand along the stone as she went, like a ghost in these halls. It felt cool against her burning skin.

As she approached she began to hear voices. Irileth’s smooth, stern one. Farengar’s lilting tone, injected with too many large words. And Cato’s light one, his Cyrodiilic one, laughing at something someone said. Lydia’s cold heart warmed a little and she smiled despite herself.

As she reached the bottom the little party turned to her and her eyes found Cato’s. His face simply lit up and he smiled warmly at her. He was happy to see her. It was so genuine that her heart twisted inside her chest and she nearly let out another sob. How many people could she say were the same?

“Hey,” he said, walking to meet her halfway, his leather armour creaking dully. “We’re nearly done here. Farengar was only telling me a story about you, you know,” he teased, smiling playfully. He was so warm. How was he always so warm?

“Oh?” she managed to squeak out, her mind still hazy. Farengar smiled sheepishly behind him, organising his cluttered scrolls absentmindedly. “Which one?”

“Oh, nothing really,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Just something about a waterfall and sweetroll and a certain city guard...”

She raised her eyebrows at the mage. “That never happened,” she said weakly, voice cracking. She coughed to cover it up.

She smiled thinly at Farengar for a moment before Cato had replaced her view, his face twisted in concern.

“Hey,” he spoke quietly, closely, only for the two of them. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” she coughed again, looking away from him. He didn’t let her. He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. His hand, rough from his bow and the life of an adventurer, burned against her skin, too hot as always. Despite his concern, the tenderness of it made her lose track of her thoughts.

“No, you’re not,” he pressed. “Did everything go ok up there? Do I need to kick some ass?” He smiled a little but she knew he was serious at the same time. “Because I can, if you want me to.”

She looked into his eyes, full of concern and care, and she knew then she loved him. Maybe not in the way lovers should, or maybe even friends ought to. But she did.

She looked into his eyes, his very _Imperial_ eyes, and she knew his heart was not black or made of ice. He was not faithless, he wasn’t a coward – he was most definitely not a _scib_. He was a man that cared a great deal for his friends, and she loved him. He had the purest, biggest heart of anyone she’d ever met. There was a great void in her own heart, yawning and gaping and raw where her family, her blood, had left her one by one.

Had they ever truly been there?

But, somehow, this man, despite everything he was or did, had managed to fill it. All of it. How was she only realising this now?

Her mouth opened in awe, in utter amazement at her own stupidity, at her elating, wonderful, heart-soaring realisation. _She loved him._ Her heart ached for the second death of her father yet it beat with the ferocity of finding family in someone else.

What a strange feeling.

Cato gave her an odd look, no doubt worrying about the myriad of emotions criss-crossing her face, and he let her go. “Are you ok?” he repeated.

No. Yes. Of course. _Never. Always_.

His touch had grown cold on her face yet it never left her. It warmed her. It held up the walls crumbling around her. It was the spark needed to bring her dead heart back to life.

She wanted to kiss him. The thought struck her suddenly like a bolt of lightning but it was not unwelcome. Not anymore, because she knew why, now. _She loved him_.

Now was hardly the time to. There were too many eyes, always too many eyes here. Why did it take so much of her strength to keep away from him, to tear away from his pull? Why did it have to be here, of all places?

But she didn’t care anymore, and she nearly laughed at that. She wanted to kiss him. So she did.

She grabbed his head and pulled him to her, almost roughly, and she kissed him, here in the place she had first met him all that time ago. Never softly, that was not who she was, but with a swift gradation of intensity that made her cling to him as the only solid thing in a dizzy, swaying world. It wasn’t perfect and she could feel him stiffen under her lips, but she didn’t care. He was so close, so warm, and before a swimming dizziness spun her round and round, she felt him kissing her back.

He pulled her close to him, his arms around her at last, his skin so hot she might have been burning in dragon-fire, and she was certain he would never let her go. She didn’t want him to. And, through the muddled tide of warmth that was her mind, it occurred to her that he was kissing her the just the way she had imagined him.

She couldn’t stop herself, and maybe it was going too fast, but she ran her tongue, just a little, along his bottom lip. He tasted like _Cato_ , simply Cato, and she’d never experienced anything so _right_ in all her life. He was so warm, even through both their armours, yet Lydia wanted to get even closer, to feel his skin against hers, even if it burned her. The thought, and the feeling of his hands on her back, sent wild tremors along her nerves, evoking from her sensations she had never known she was capable of feeling.

Her lungs burned and cried out for air, so it was only reluctantly she pulled away from him to gasp. He was breathless, too, and she’d never seen his face so red, nor his eyes so wide, nor that _look_ he gave her now, something like desire mixed with trepidation. He looked more striking, more attractive, than he ever had before. She realised she still had her hand twisted in his short hair, but she kept it there. His own hands rested around her waist, soft but not letting her go. She felt wanted. _Needed._ Alive. It made her heart soar like the dragons inside of him.

“Well,” he breathed, leaning closer so only she could hear, a smile spreading slowly across his face. “ _That_ was long overdue.” The stubble lining his jaw grazed against her own cheek as he spoke, and she laughed, hugging him close.

He had never said anything so true in all the time she had known him.

* * *

**A/N: That _was_  long overdue, wasn't it?**

**Haha! How was that? FINALLY, you are all thinking. I know. You have been so patient with me, and here you go. Hope it was decent.**

**_Scib_  is a random racial slur/derogatory word that I made up in about 3 seconds. It's not the best but hey, it gets the point across.**

**Anyways, thanks again guys. Hope you enjoyed it!**

 


	11. Secunda

**A/N: Hello again my lovely readers! Once again, I apologise for the late update, but I am in the midst of finals at uni. This is my last year though, and I've only a week of school left! Yay! So that means I _should_  (and I say this lightly) have a bit more time to write. Hopefully.**

**Alright, so here is the next chapter! Truth be told, it is sort of a filler, but there is a bit of action for you. I know some people really like the actiony bits. There is a bit of romance here, but nothing too grand. Sorry. I feel bad for making you wait so long, so this here is a chapter specifically to hold you off until I can post the next one.**

**Hope you enjoy, and hope you all had a great Easter!**

* * *

The first thing Cato did on the dusty road out of Whiterun, packs full and purposely falling behind as Aela led the way, was criticise her.

"You know," he said, smiling smugly, "I always imagined our first kiss to be somewhat more…  _romantic._  Under the moonlight or by a beach or something. Something gooey, you know, like in the stories. I am a hero, after all."

"Sure you are," she smiled.

"I'll ignore that," he grinned. "Not in the Jarl's hall, though. In front of  _Aela_ , of all people." He shivered jokingly and Lydia could not help but laugh. Everything seemed a little lighter, a little brighter. Her pack did not weigh down on her shoulders as much as it used to. And the air did not bite as cold, though maybe that was because he was walking beside her. "Did you  _have_  to? I mean, you couldn't wait?"

She returned the smug smile. "You imagined us kissing?"

His cheeks went red, hardly noticeable on his darker skin, but she saw it nonetheless. It made her smile widen. "I… well, I didn't –"

"And on a beach?" she pressed, stepping around a pothole. He held his arm out for her and she accepted it graciously. "Tell me of a beach in Skyrim. That isn't covered in ice."

"Hey, I don't know!" he laughed, elbowing her lightly when she let go of his arm. "There's beaches in Cyrodiil, alright? I grew up with standards like that. Stories and paintings. We're a bit more romantic than you Nords, if you didn't know."

"Is that so?" she asked, squinting a little in the bright sunlight. "Is that why you made the first move?"

He turned red again but managed a sheepish smile. "Ah… yes. When they write stories about me – and they  _will_ , of course – they'll want something more than  _the Dragonborn didn't have the guts to kiss her first._ "

"Hm," she mused, causing him to raise his eyebrows at her. "You're right, you know. They might confuse us."

"Ouch!" he laughed, clutching at his heart dramatically like he always did. "That hurt! Is it your intention to ruin me? Because you're doing a spectacular job."

"Please," she snorted. "If I wanted to ruin you, I would have run you through with a sword long ago."

"Is that a threat, Housecarl?" he smiled, smoothing down the front of his leather armour.

She shrugged ahead, struggling to hold down a smile. He watched her for a moment, waiting, squinting in the sunlight, but the second she glanced at him from the side she let out a loud laugh. He grinned, setting her heart aflame, and nudged her with his leathered arm softly, knowingly, and the light of the autumn sun caught his eyes so perfectly that it was all she could do not to get lost in them. She would have looked away before, took her own eyes back out onto the plains, or up into the sky in an act of such blatant ignorance and embarrassment, but she didn't need to now, did she? Not anymore. Her heart thudded at the thought, and at the brisk pace at which they were walking, but maybe more at the way he was gazing at her as if he were thinking the same.

Well, if she were being quite honest, she couldn't have looked away from his eyes even if she wanted to.

She'd always loved them. Had she ever told him that?

"I'm so happy, you know," he beamed, his eyes simply dancing with glee, and her heart thudded madly, threatening to burst from her chest. "For this, for you. For whatever comes next. I'm glad you had the courage to do that. Now don't go telling anyone I said that," he added, noticing her smug smile. "That's the only time I'll say that. I need to keep up my image."

"Sure," she grinned, unable to keep a smile from her face. Not that she wanted it gone. She was so happy as well. And right now, right here with him, she could not remember being happier.

"You know, though," he added after a long moment, a sly little grin gracing his face. "I can't stop thinking of poor Farengar standing there watching us. I thought he was going to die of embarrassment."

Lydia nearly winced, looking away at last. "Yeah," she began a little awkwardly. "I had… ah,  _forgotten_ he was there. I don't think I can ever face him again."

Cato shrugged with envious nonchalance. "Oh well. The man needed to see that, stuck in his books and scrolls all day like he is. Has he ever even  _looked_  at a woman? Probably not."

Lydia cringed. She didn't like thinking of her mentor, her old friend, like that.

"You didn't answer my question, you know," he whispered, leaning closer so the Companion didn't hear. "From before. About Aela."

Lydia frowned, eyes darting to the Huntress ahead. She had been so wrapped up in their conversation, so taken by his eyes and by  _him_ , she had forgot the woman was even there. But she was, just out of earshot, her Nordic armour glinting in the bright sunlight and polished so smoothly Lydia could see the reflection of the dusty road on her cuirass, even from back here.

"No," she answered after a moment. "I don't think she saw."

"Hm," he pondered, staring ahead to Aela. "Maybe you're right. I think she was too busy loathing the Jarl in the corner. She certainly hasn't said anything, yet."

"You think she will?"

"You think she  _won't?_ "

"I don't know her very well."

"Right," he grimaced. "Lucky you. You're about to."

"I'm simply  _thrilled._ "

He raised his eyebrows to her. "Cheeky," he grinned, leaning a little closer. "I think I like it."

She could feel his breath on her neck, hot in the cool autumn air, and it caused her to shiver. He was so close she could smell his skin and the tanning oil on his leather chestpiece. Her cheeks flared red and she looked away, hoping he wouldn't notice. If he had, which was more than likely the case, he didn't say anything about it.

"Regardless of whether she saw any of that or not," he frowned, looking to the road ahead, "I think it would be best to… keep her in the dark. For the time being."

"You think so?"

"Just until we can get a moment to…  _discuss_  some things."

Cato gave her a knowing glance and she frowned at the way he said that. It made her think of the conversation with her father that morning. She'd been trying hard to forget it. "Hm. I guess you're right."

"Lydia," he sighed, adjusting his pack tiredly. "I'd just… rather her  _not_  know. About anything. For a while, at least. Or until this trip is over. If you failed to notice, she's not in the best of moods. I think I have something to do with that," he smiled thinly, "though this time it seems less the fault of the whole  _Me Issue_  and more of the forcing on Balgruuf's part. I'll take what I can get," he shrugged. "Life is immeasurably easier when Aela is happy. And I don't feel like giving her another reason to  _not._  Be happy, I mean. Is that alright?"

"Of course," she said. "It's not… well, you know her more than I do. Whatever you think is best."

"I know it'll be tough trying to keep your hands off this," he smirked, gesturing to himself. "But I have practice beating the hordes of women off me."

"I'll manage."

He laughed aloud, scaring a grouse or some other prairie bird from the grasses a ways off, and she smiled at his infectious laugh. "You are  _so_ good at wounding my pride, you know. It's a wonder I've survived this long."

"It's because I've always been there to drag you out of things."

"Ha! Is that it?" he grinned, shaking the dust from his dark hair, and making Lydia swallow. He really  _was_  handsome, she thought. He hadn't shaved in a day or two, and the stubble on his face made him look rugged yet at the same time well-groomed, if such a medium existed. And he was  _hers_  now, whatever that meant, and that gave her no small amount of satisfaction. "If I recall, it was  _me_  pulling you away from the giant last time, not the other way around."

"About time you pulled your own weight."

"By the Eight!" he laughed again. "What happened to you? Where's the Lydia I first met? Not that I'm complaining, mind you," he added in response to her creased eyebrows. "I like this sassy Lydia. The old one was too…  _stuffy_. Kept to the rules. Never saw you smile for the first six months I knew you."

She frowned, only a little hurt. "You're well on your way to a fist in your face, you know."

He smiled. "I see she's not completely gone, then. Truly though," he said, losing his lilting jest. "You've come a long way, Lydia. You're not the same as you once were. You know that, right? You're a different woman than the one I met in Dragonsreach all that time ago. That's a good thing, you know. I'm glad you're you."

She smiled a little, heart aching just a bit, and taking that as a compliment, of sorts. For what it was worth, he was right. She'd changed. For the better, he seemed to think, and that was all that mattered to her.

"What happened back there?" he blurted out, taking her aback. "With your father, I mean?" She frowned, and she was certain he could see the wisps of hurt flash over her face.

He knew, then. How had she ever thought differently? He always knew. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You don't have to answer that."

"No," she sighed, managing to pull herself together. "It's fine. I knew you were going to ask sometime." She shrugged. "We just – had a disagreement."

He looked her in the eyes, curiously, carefully calculating what she meant and what he should say. This time, there was no glint of sunlight, no spellbinding hold. Only worry there.

"And what – what did he say?" he asked, putting a hand on her armoured arm and stopping them where they stood.

She glanced down at his hand, scarred and rough and tanned as it was, and just for a moment, Lydia considered telling him. How her father hated him, how  _everyone_ hated him, how it had nothing to do with his character but merely the factor of where he was born and the colour of his skin. How the man had threatened her, swayed her, tried to  _change_  her because of him – but there it was. Cato had already changed her long ago. He had said so himself.

No, there was no need to tell him all those things. He already knew.

"It doesn't matter," she said, looking out over the plains. "He…said something I disagreed with and so I left."

He shuffled anxiously on the spot, worry creasing his brow. "Look, Lydia," he said, his voice wavering uncharacteristically. "This whole thing – if it's – I don't want to get between –"

"No," she said, cutting him off and looking him in the eyes now. They were full of worry. She didn't like seeing them like that. "My father's been the cause of… a lot of things. I'm not sure I can forgive him yet. What I did needed to be done. And I've told you it doesn't matter. I've made my decision."

He let her go and studied her for a moment, and she wondered if he was deciding whether she was brave or merely stupid. Or maybe a mix of the two with some foolishness thrown in. In all honesty, she couldn't tell you herself. So much had happened in such a short time and she was only realising how very tired she was from it all.

He smiled, though, a wide, easy smile which meant he'd either figured it out or didn't even care, and took a step closer so that he was all she could see. "Alright. I'll let it go. But whatever it was you did back there, I want you to know that I'm proud. It couldn't have been easy. And truly," he said, reaching out and clasping his warm, tanned hand around her pale one, "I'm glad you did. However selfish that sounds."

His fingers laced with hers and his hand nearly burned her own, but she could feel the fast thud of his heart through her palm, both of them roughened from her axe and his bow, from a lifetime of fighting. She smiled at him, maybe a little red in the cheeks, and he smiled back.

"Hey! Imperial!" Aela called out, causing them to instantaneously let go of each other's hand. "Keep up! We've got a long way to go and the less I have to see your face, the better."

Cato narrowed his eyes at her back.

"How do you tolerate her?" Lydia asked with a frown, then smiled sheepishly when Cato grabbed her hand again, a smile gracing his handsome face.

"With no small amount of patience and alcohol." He smiled wider, his lopsided smile that revealed the missing tooth, and Lydia's heart fluttered madly. "So much for discussing this later," he added, glancing down to their entwined hands.

"Well, at least some the deep stuff is out of the way."

"I guess so. You think she saw?"

"No," Lydia said. "She has no idea."

He squeezed her hand and smiled.

* * *

"So, how long have you been fucking the Imperial?"

Lydia coughed violently and spit out the water she'd been drinking. It landed on her night chemise and lap, little droplets that glinted in the firelight, and saliva hung in spindles from her mouth.

"Lovely," the Huntress said, not bothering to hide her revulsion.

"Excuse me?" Lydia managed to choke out, face red with equal parts lack of air and embarrassment.

"You heard me. Don't act like you didn't." Aela poked the fire with a long crooked stick, causing the embers to swirl into the inky night sky, and Lydia glared at her from across the fire. "You and the Imperial. How long have you two been fucking?"

"Is the swearing necessary?" Lydia asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and setting the canteen down on the dewy grass.

"No. But I'll do whatever the fuck I want."

Lydia ignored that. She'd learned, in what little conversation they'd had during the day, that the Companion would do  _very well as she pleased, thank you very much._

"There's nothing going on between us," she lied, hoping against hope that Cato would come back from his watch. As awkward as that conversation would be, it would no doubt be less painful as the one she was having now. "It – wouldn't be appropriate, given my position."

She didn't like the way the woman was staring at her from across the fire, a dark shape glinting in the night. Like a predator studying its prey, looking for any sign of weakness. It was harder than she'd like to admit to keep her gaze level with her stony glare.

"You are a terrible liar, Housecarl," Aela said after a moment too long. "I can see right through you, you know."

"Then you are a terrible tracker."

She had no idea why she said that. It didn't even make any sense. But for a moment Lydia thought the Companion was going to leap across the fire and rip out her throat like some enraged wolf. She panicked, glancing around for her axe, when the woman let out a harsh, barking laugh that echoed out into the darkness.

"Oh, you are  _precious!_  Simply hilarious!" she cackled, and Lydia froze, not certain this wasn't still some ruse. "I can see why he keeps you around! Well, apart from the occasional fuckery."

"Will you stop using that word?" Lydia glowered.

"You two are so sweet together, you know," she continued, content to ignore the other Nord. "Too sweet almost, with all your whispering and giggling and little looks you give each other when you think I'm not looking. It's sickening." Aela glanced across the fire to Lydia, gaging her reaction, a wicked smile spreading across her face. "Don't think I missed that little hand-holdy thing you did this morning."

Lydia's heart dropped. "I wasn't holding his hand. I – tripped and he helped me up. Nothing more."

"Please, Housecarl," Aela laughed bitterly, the sound making Lydia's hair stand on end. "Stop while you're ahead. You're embarrassing yourself."

Lydia frowned. She couldn't argue with that, despite how much she was loathe to admit.

"Tell me one thing, though," the woman continued conversationally, the bars of war paint barely visible on her face in the flickering firelight. "How good is it? The sex, I mean?"

Lydia swallowed. "There is no  _sex,_  Companion," she growled. "I told you before. There is nothing." She glared across the fire and clenched her jaw at the woman's brazen attempts to rile her up. She had no doubt it was some sort of sick sport for the Companion, perfected over a lifetime of heckling and manipulation.

"I don't think it'd be very good, considering how small they are," she continued, shifting on the rock beneath her. She'd kept her armour on, and it scraped sharply as she moved. "Imperials, I mean. Not very strong. Not very  _big,_  you know?" She cupped the air with a battle-hardened hand, smiling as Lydia shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing like a Nord."

Lydia's cheeks flared red and she gazed out into the darkness, into the trees surrounding the little clearing, hoping against hope the Huntress did not see. "No, I don't know. Enough of this."

"You're a Nord. Tall, strong, pretty enough, I guess. What do you see in him, anyways?" She leaned forward, feigning curiosity. "Surely it's not his looks. Too short. Too dark. No beard. Crooked nose. Did he break it?" Aela shrugged, undoubtedly conscious of Lydia's mounting anger across the fire and enjoying it anyway. "Doesn't matter, I guess. The sex  _must_  be good if you're willing to look over all  _that._ "

"I said enough." Lydia grit her teeth, her skin prickling uncomfortably, her anger threatening to spill over now.

The Huntress was good at what she did. Like a wolf driving its prey from the underbrush, the woman could sniff out a weakness and chase it down until exhaustion.

"Or maybe he pays you," she said slickly, smiling as she watched Lydia's jaw clench even tighter. "Is that it? Do you sell yourself out to your Thane? I can't think of any other reason a self-respecting Nord would willingly bed such a pathetic excuse of a man."

"Enough!" Lydia snarled, vaulting from the rock she'd been sitting on. "Why must you be so  _vile?_  What do you have against him? Against  _me?_ "

She damned herself as she watched the Huntress's sly smile grow darker. She'd taken the bait. How foolish of her.

"I've nothing against you," Aela stated, frowning innocently enough. "As for  _him,_  though…" she shrugged. "Same reason you ought to hate him."

"Why?" Lydia growled, desperately attempting to cool down after she realised she'd been caught. She couldn't, though. She'd had enough of people ridiculing Cato to last a lifetime and then some. "Because he's an Imperial? Because he's Dragonborn and you're not?"

Lydia could not help but feel a small pang of satisfaction as she watched the woman's face twitch in anger.

"Because he's a  _coward,_ " she snapped, finally letting her ire bleed through her stony exterior. "He's been running his whole life. From his homeland, from his people. From his duty as a Companion. That's all he's  _ever_ done, and all he'll  _ever_  do. Tell me," she seethed, her eyes growing dangerous like they had that time in Jorrvaskr, "is Alduin dead yet? It's been  _three years,_  Housecarl. People are dying every day. How many more need to perish before he finishes what he started?"

Lydia blinked. Whatever she thought the woman would say,  _that_  was certainly not it.

"It's not his fault," she said weakly. "The dragons."

"Dragons were a myth for a thousand years and they returned on the day he crossed into Skyrim. I would say it is fault enough."

"You don't  _know_  him," Lydia growled, anger threatening to spill over again. "You don't know  _anything_  about him –"

"I don't  _need_  to!" Aela barked, rising from her seat as well. She stared hard at Lydia across the flames, her cold eyes flickering dangerously in the firelight. "Nords can judge the character of a man long before the lies start spilling from his mouth."

"I don't think I've ever heard you say anything so true," Lydia seethed, her anger sliding across her skin in hot waves. "I knew from the moment we met that you were a vile snake, a cowering wolf with nothing but hate inside."

"A cowering wolf?" Aela snarled, a nasty smile twisting her beautiful face. "You think I'm a wolf?" She reached down to her boot and slipped out a silvery dagger lightning-fast and held it loosely in her hand, not menacing enough to cause mass hysteria but enough that Lydia was alarmed anyways. "Say that again, and you'll see just how hard this  _wolf_  bites."

"Aela, put the knife down." Cato stepped from the darkness into the ring of light, and had Lydia not been so focussed on the Huntress she would have been impressed at how quiet he was. "Cut the dramatics. You're not impressing anyone."

Aela glared daggers sharper than the one in her hand. "This isn't your business, Imperial."

He took another step closer, glancing to Lydia for a moment before frowning to the Companion.

"Actually, it  _is_  my business. You pulled a dagger on my friend here. I don't like that."

"Shame, really," Aela bristled, "because I don't give a damn what you like."

"See, now  _that's_  a problem," he sighed, glancing around like he was looking for somewhere to sit. He didn't, though, and kept his eyes focussed on Aela. "You're too stubborn, you know?"

"Am I now?"

"Indubitably."

"Enough of your words," she snarled, gripping the silvery dagger tighter. "If you mean to say something, just say it. Or I'll cut it out of you."

"Alright, then" he said, face and voice hardening akin to that of a schoolteacher, or a stern parent, or Lydia's old training sergeant. It was the voice of authority, and one she didn't hear from Cato very often. It caught her attention. "You simply refuse to get along with me or my Housecarl, and you've deliberately ignored my orders all day. So I –"

"I will not take orders from a  _rat,_ " she seethed.

"The Jarl placed  _me_  in charge, if I remember correctly," he said sharply. "You'd do well to remember that."

"Is that so?"

" _Yes_ , Aela, it is." The tension in the night air was so thick it was almost visible, the waves of hatred rolling off of the Nord and the Imperial. It cast a bad taste in Lydia's mouth. "Because when this is done," he said, "when we find this  _Danica_  everyone is pissing their pants about, I'll need to report back to him. And to the Companions, most likely."

He gave Aela a knowing glare, but the Huntress refused to budge, her face set in a permanent frown.

"So? Is that supposed to frighten me?" She snorted. "You'll have to do a lot better than  _that._ "

He frowned and continued. "Being the silver-tongued  _Empire rat_ , as you are so fond of calling me, a few extra words might slip out here and there and, who knows?" he shrugged, and Lydia caught the woman falter for a moment. "I'm  _very_  good at telling stories, you know. Perhaps the dagger was a sword, and perhaps you took a swing at my Housecarl." He narrowed his eyes. " _That_  wouldn't look very good on a Companion, now would it?"

The silence was almost deafening, the soft crackling fire the only confirmation that Lydia hadn't gone deaf. She watched the Huntress freeze as if an ice spell had hit her straight through the heart.

"Are you –  _threatening_  me?" she asked sharply, piercing the smothering silence, her face a mixture of severe disbelief and pure hatred. Lydia smiled despite herself.

He shrugged a third time. "If you want to call it that."

The men rushed out from the trees then, from the darkness and into the circle of light, screeching and howling and crashing crude weapons off of dented metal shields, and the three of them scattered into the night.

Lydia leapt to the side in a moment of pure instinct, her unarmoured knees and palms grazing sharply off a rock, and she swore under her breath. The uproar grew louder and the sound of crunching metal and cries of terror clouded her thoughts as she looked down to her bleeding palms.

_Get up,_  a voice inside her sliced through her muddled haze.  _Get up and find your axe._

She obeyed, heaving herself off the dewy grass, ignoring the pain in her hands and the thrashing of her heart in her chest and her ears.

A massive shaggy bandit adorned with greasy strips of leather appeared in front of her, and his surprise at her presence gave her just enough time to aim a hard kick square in the gut. He doubled over, grunting in pain, and Lydia snatched his crude sword ribbed with bones and teeth and slammed it down hard across his back. He fell and did not move again.

Lydia dropped the weapon and sprinted to where she knew her pack lay against a twisted tree. Another bandit, nearly identical to the first, intercepted her path and chopped another crude sword down to her. She staggered out of range and watched the weapon lodge itself in the dark earth with a dull thud, cursing at her own stupidity. She had no armour on, allowing herself a short respite from the long day of trudging and trusting to Cato's superior instincts. One little mistake could be her end.

She aimed another kick at the warrior, staying out of his range, her metal boot connecting swiftly with the hand gripped around the sword. She heard the crunch of his knuckles breaking over his agonised howling, his bearded, sweaty face twisting in the shadows. She gave him a hard shove a moment later and he toppled to the ground, alive but in pain.

Sweat dripped down her brow and into her eyes. She wiped it away and dashed to her pack, skirting another bandit who took a swing at her head. She reached inside, gripped the cool ice-enchanted handle, and yanked it out with a desperate cry, spinning around, ready to face whoever came at her next.

_Let them come._

"Wait!"

Lydia blinked, eyes instantly darting across the fire to where Cato knelt, hands in the air, a barbed sword to his neck. A man stood over him, his fiery eyes hidden beneath a deer skull fashioned into a crude helmet. He smiled wickedly.

_"_ _No!"_  she screamed, rushing toward the Forsworn man, her axe held high. The world swirled back into motion, her heart started beating again.

"Lydia! Please! Just stop!" Cato cried, a deep cut above his brow streaming dragon-blood down his face.

He was all she had left in this world, and she would not let the Forsworn take him from her. Not yet. Not  _ever._

The Forsworn thrust out his dirt-encrusted hand and a surge of energy hit Lydia with such force her feet were thrown out from under her. She crashed violently to the ground and hit her head hard, the sound of wicked cackling dancing in her ears, and she blinked through the dewy grasses. She gasped for breath in the frigid air, the smell of sweat and blood and the acrid tang of magic assaulting her nose. She could see, through the flickering firelight and haze that threatened to overtake her, a briar heart placed precariously in the Forsworn's gaping chest and stitched over haphazardly with strips of oily twine.

The Briarheart smiled viciously and ordered one of his men to seize her. Framed by the blood-red moonlight of Secunda, he stood above Cato and whispered cruel things into his ear, wicked weapon held tight against his exposed throat. The Forsworn mage was the very picture of storybook evil, and Lydia's blood ran cold in her veins.

She felt the boots thudding towards her, and she grimaced, pushing herself up from the grass. Her axe was so close, and she had only to reach out and take it…

"Don't hurt her!" Cato cried again, and the last thing she saw, before a sharp pain on the back of her head enveloped her world in darkness, was Cato's blood-stained face and his beautiful eyes shining with fear.

* * *

**A/N: AHHH oh no! What a cliffhanger, eh? Hoped you liked it!**

 


	12. Mad

**A/N: Hello again my lovely readers! How are you all? Good, I hope!**

**So I'm sure you're getting pretty tired of my excuses (of why I'm shitty at updating, let's be honest), but I just wanted to say I had the amazing opportunity to go to Guatemala on a volunteer trip for a few weeks and I only returned last week. It was pretty last minute, too, and I just didn't have time to put out a chapter before I left.**

**So this one features the Forsworn, obviously. As you will probably be able to tell, this chapter is sort of a Gladiator/Mad Max hybrid, and I had a lot of fun writing it because of that. So I hope you like that sort of gritty, bloody, mad aspect to it. It's different from what I've written before, but I figure Cato's the Dragonborn, and more interesting stuff needs to happen to him. So, this was born! If you're confused plotwise at all, don't worry, I have a plan, and it will become clearer next chapter.**

**Speaking of next chapter, that one will be super fluffy and full of romance, just you wait! This one… not so much. But hey! Super intense battle scenes! And guess what – I'm almost done writing it, so expect it in a couple days! Yay!**

**Please don't hit me.**

**As always, hope you enjoy it! Leave a review if you're so inclined, and I'll respond to it next chapter! (However, I am a little behind on that. I'm working on it, though, so stay tuned!)**

 

 

* * *

 

 

"The other female is awake," the voice said, thick and blurred as Lydia stirred from her slumber.

Blinking heavily in the dim light, she saw dark shapes moving, indistinct and erratic, but, deep in the recesses of her dazed mind, knew them to be human.

The sounds around her were muffled, lilting, muted notes in the stillness, and whether that was the nature of the sounds or her pounding head echoing them back to her, she could not be certain.

"Go get him, then." The voice again, slow and imprecise, the sound heavy like thick mud.

But she did know, after a time, that she had been stripped of her armour and propped up into a sitting position with no great care. Her legs were prickly and they ached from the awkward angle and something, a rock or twig maybe, was digging her in the thigh.

She shook her head to clear her vision.

A sharp pain lanced through her skull, and she winced at the resonating throbbing from a spot on the back of her head.

What had happened? Why did she hurt?

Where was she?

She made to bring her hand up to her head instinctively but found she couldn't. Blinking once more in confusion, she pulled at her hands and winced again as the rope cut into her wrists, straining against the splintering post she'd been tied to.

The world seemed to be delayed, the dark shapes sluggish and dull around her, lingering for a long while before moving on. Again, whether they actually were or her mind was merely leaden she did not know.

She swallowed, her throat parched and dry as sandpaper. She was thirsty. She was much too tired. And her head still hurt.

Where was she?

She swallowed again, this time in fear as a large shirtless man, filthy and scarred with a severely crooked nose and a dirty brown beard, roiled into focus before her and pressed a crude spiked sword tight against her throat.

The abrupt and imminent danger hurled Lydia's world sharply back into focus. She stared up into the wild blue eyes of her captor, his sooty face barely illuminated in the low torchlight, and convulsively breathed in his acrid, choking smell, that of old sour sweat and crusted dirt and something bitterly musky, like human skin not bathed in far too long.

"Bring him here."

The sound of a muffled cry to her right pierced her consciousness and despite everything, her pain and her thickened senses and confusion and fear, she glanced that way.

Cato was there. And in spite of his predicament identical to that of Lydia's, or maybe because of it, she smiled in immense relief.

He was standing not an arm's length from her in the low, wide tent in which they all stood, chest heaving in exertion or pain, she didn't know. He had been stripped of his armour as well, and was clad in his simple under-armour chemise, now stained with grime and sweat and dried blood. His hands had been bound like hers behind his back, but there was no post behind him, nothing shackling him to the ground. He had been moved around then, kept on his feet, and with no great care, it looked. His hair was ruffled and dusty, and his normally bright eyes were now sunken and dark-rimmed with exhaustion.

How long had she been asleep?

But, perhaps most striking of all was the grimy yellowed cloth in his mouth, tied crudely around the back of his head, keeping him from speaking a word.

Why?

He managed to catch Lydia's eye for only a moment, a fleeting glance from the side, and she could tell he was trying to convey the message  _it's alright. We'll be fine._

But she had known him for far too long to be tricked by him anymore. He was afraid. Had she ever seen him truly afraid before?

Another shirtless man, ugly with missing teeth and a heavily scarred face, stepped from beyond Lydia's vision and pushed Cato roughly to his knees. He let out a muted grunt as he struggled to balance himself but failed, cursing the binds that held him, and fell lamely on his side into the dusty dirt.

_"Get up!"_  the ugly man growled, dragging him by the arm to his knees again. Anger thrashed inside Lydia and she huffed in a temper, throat too parched to form any distinct words.

Cato threw a nasty glare at his captor and shrugged his hands off him.

"You. Shouter," Lydia's captor demanded, his strange accent a mix of Nordic and something thicker, slower, older, like grinding ice on the shores of the sea. He pointed to Cato's chest with his barbed blade. "This her?" He returned the weapon to her throat, causing her to swallow dryly.

Cato let out an involuntary whimper and his eyes flashed with fear for a heartbeat before they clouded with anger, realising he'd been tricked.

Lydia's captor, a balding, blue-eyed bearded man with bushy eyebrows and a face hard as chiseled stone, smiled grimly. "This one's his mate, then," he said to no one in particular, pressing the sword a little closer to her throat.  _"Good."_

She didn't know why that mattered or what that meant, not in her semi-dazed state. But she found she didn't care.

Cato was  _alive_. He was  _here_.

But he was hurt.

There was a deep cut above his brow, crusted over with dried black blood, and a large bruise had begun forming near his temple. His hands, tied as they were, were raw and red and she knew he'd struggled fiercely against his binds to no avail. There was a dark stain on the right thigh of his now-grimy pants, and she could tell, by the way he was favouring that leg and by the reluctance to put pressure on it, that he had been cut deep there. She could not see it, though that was probably best.

As people and things were shuffled around her in a strange, slow monotony of grinding time and space, of which she could feel the eager, exorbitant energy in the air yet she could not fathom or feel, she took her eyes away from Cato to glance around.

They were inside a low large tent, a marquee of sorts, if it could even be called that, the likes of which Lydia had never before seen. The canvas was too thick and the torches too low, streaming no sunlight through and giving no hint to the time of day, muffling the sounds inside and shutting out the ones beyond. It was ribbed with animal bones, forming a sort of framing on which to toss the animal skins over and call it a tent. And the place was strange. No furniture, no weapons racks, no tables or ale barrels or chairs at all. The only décor seemed to be pale crude paintings of elk and sabre-cats and ravens on the canvas walls, painted blood-red and ashen-black and faded over time. The dirt floor rubbed bits of rubble into her unarmoured knees, irritating and itchy, but she was unable to brush it away. The place was oddly foreboding yet comforting a little. In what way she didn't know. Her senses must still have been crossed.

It was cold in here, cold enough that she could see her breath in little puffs before her. Cato was shivering pathetically beside her where he knelt, sharp eyes darting around the marquee, but she could feel his dragon-heat on her skin anyway. She would have moved to comfort him if she could. He looked so tired, so frightened.

There were other men in the tent besides the one with the wild blue eyes and the one who'd pushed Cato. Another bearded man, this one with messy braids, and a man with a ram head tattooed on his face, and yet another one with only one eye. They were all there, standing behind her captor near the heavy canvas flaps of the marquee, eyeing their prisoners with a mixture of dread and disdain. They all sported tatty, dirt-smeared pants and not one of them had a shirt on, allowing their prisoners to see every scar, every scuff of dirt, every weathered bloodstain on their sweat-slicked skin. Lydia took a closer look.

They had the muscle and pale skin of the Nords, the stature of Imperials, the height of the Bretons, and the arrogance of the elves, and every one of them crackled with magic swelling just beneath the surface. Even without their crude deer-skull helmets and barbed weapons Lydia knew them for what they were – the Reachmen, the Forsworn. Those feral bandits hiding in the Western mountains, still viewing the crooked pines and rocky steppes of the Reach as their ancestral land, refusing to accept the Nordic occupation of the Hold. They had ever been a burden to the West of Skyrim, a blight on the landscape they called their own. They had no love of the Empire, but a deep-rooted hatred of Nords festered in their hearts for all the long ages of this world.

The Forsworn.

_Ah._ Of course. She remembered now.

The painful spot on the back of her head throbbed as if in agreement.

But where was Aela?

One of the man's comrades, the one with the crude ram head tattooed on his young, inexperienced face, stepped up to Cato and withdrew his own barbed sword, pointing it down to the kneeling man's chest.

"You'll talk now, won't you, Shouter?" the tattooed man seethed, his own accent similar to the blue-eyed man's but younger, smoother, not as crinkled with age and wisdom. "No more of your Shouting. Or your woman gets a blade across her neck. If she's lucky."

Lydia had heard the campfire stories of the wild Reachmen – of their savage attacks, their human sacrifices, their pillage and rape. All Nords had. She had never really believed them to be anything more than a fishwives' tale, elaborated by time and imaginative young minds. But she could tell in the blue eyes framed by the curling ram horns, crinkling with barefaced youthfulness and mad glee, that there was at least some truth in the old stories. This man had killed before, not only for survival, and she was certain he would do it again. And perhaps killing was the most innocent of his crimes.

"He's not gonna talk, Donre," he growled, gripping his sword tightly. "Let's just kill him and be done with it. Have a little fun with his wom-"

"No," Lydia's captor said sternly, staring down at Cato curiously. "No. We need him to talk."

"Talk?" the man gawked. "You want him to  _talk?!_  Remember what happened last time he talked? Blasted Áed and Duach right into the fuckin' tree –"

"I remember, Daes," Lydia's captor, Donre, rebuked coldly, turning his frowning blue eyes onto the tattooed man. "And they are with the Old Gods, now, their flesh once more of this earth. You will remember them for the men they were, not for the way they died. Honour them and move on."

Daes scowled darkly, running a hand through his short hair in frustration, the ram-horns crinkling around his wild eyes. If not for his filthy skin and fiery temper, he would have been a striking young man, no older than Cato himself. "I still say we just off him and take the women."

"And  _I_  say if you cannot contribute anything useful, then  _leave."_

Daes's scowl darkened even more, but he did not respond. He turned his eyes back to Cato and the sword still aimed at his chest.

"Good. I understand your anger, Daes, but you must learn that your temper will not bring them back, nor will it solve your problems. Only strength and a strong head will do that."

"I do not need a lecture, old man," Daes grumbled.

"One day," Donre sighed, eyeing the tattooed man sadly. "One day you will listen to me."

Lydia watched the exchange with dazed interest, nearly forgetting about the sword to her neck until the barbs pressed a little closer.

"Shouter," Donre demanded, his blue eyes menacing once more. "You will speak now, or you will watch her die in front of you."

Cato glared up at the blue-eyed man with his blade against Lydia, and then at the young ram-faced one standing in front of him, and finally to her.

He was simply  _livid,_  she could tell, but he was hiding it from these men well. His eyes shone with determination and severe defiance, and his jaw clenched down hard on the cloth that silenced him, but there was no getting out of this one by force.

Even if he Shouted, and blasted them all through the thick canvas, and somehow managed to sever the spell-bound rope tethering them there without anyone else noticing, they had no weapons. They had no armour, no plan, and no way to heal their heavy wounds nor Lydia's dizzying spell of crushing time-place cognisance. They didn't even know where in Skyrim they were.

Lydia knew it. And so did he.

He turned his eyes back to the ram-faced man in front of him and nodded defiantly.

The rag was removed from his mouth roughly, and as the tattooed man took a cautious step back, every Forsworn in the marquee gripped their swords a little tighter, thickening the anticipation in the silence of the canvassed room.

_"Fuck,"_  Cato coughed, spitting harshly onto the earthen ground. "The fuck was that used for? You wipe a horse's ass with that thing?" He spit again, causing Daes to growl in disgust. "I'll be tasting that for a week straight. Honestly," he scowled, "you couldn't have given me something  _not_  covered in shit?"

Despite the entire terrifying, perilous, and simply  _peculiar_ situation she found herself in, Lydia managed a thin smile.

"Where is the healer?" Donre demanded in his strange accent, tense as a lute string. "Where have you taken her?"

Lydia blinked. Her mind was still a bit hazy and the world still slow, but she was certain that she heard the man correctly.

Cato spit one last time before he turned to glare at the man.

"I've told you before," he said sharply,  _"we don't have her."_

"You  _lie_ ," Donre growled, causing Lydia to wince as the spikes pressed deeper into her neck. "You will tell us everything, or I will kill her."

"You will take that blade away from her this instant, or I will tell you  _nothing._ "

The blue-eyed man glared back at Cato, and for a moment Lydia was almost convinced he would bring the sword across her neck, if for no other reason than to spite the Imperial. She swallowed in the silence, feeling the little droplets of blood roll slickly down her throat.

The man scowled as he withdrew the blade and Lydia let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"Speak, then," he growled.

"Danica is not with us," Cato said, shifting where he knelt. "I already told you this."

_"Lies!"_  Daes hissed, throwing Cato's rag down into the dust in anger. "Those were all lies!"

"They aren't," Cato countered. "We don't have her. You don't believe me."

"I don't," Donre said.

"Just because you  _don't_  doesn't make it  _so,_ " Cato countered.

"Is that so?" Donre asked, eyes narrowing.

"So it is."

"What is this?" Daes demanded, eyes darting from Cato to Donre and back again. "What're you playin' at, Shouter?" He poked the tip of his sword to Cato's chest, hard enough to make him sway. "Get on with it. Enough of your lies and tongue-work."

"I'm not lying," Cato said, glaring at Daes.

_"Yes,_  you are."

_"No,_  I'm not."

"You  _fuckin'_  –"

"Daes," Donre warned. "Enough."

"He's lying!" the young man accused. "That's all he's done since we brought him here! To you, to me, to everyone!"

"To me?" Cato asked, keeping the smile from his face but not his voice. Daes frowned down at him.

"Probably."

"I lie to myself all the time," Cato said. "But I never believe me."

"The fuck's that mean?" Daes hissed, glowering down at his captive.

_"A truth that's told with bad intent_

_Beats all the lies you can invent."_

"You'll start making sense now, you fuckin' little Skeever shit."

"Talk sense to a fool and he calls you foolish."

_"You –!"_  Daes's eyes turned wild and he swung his barbed sword up into a high arc, fully committed to bring it down upon the Imperial. Cato closed his eyes.

_"Daes!"_  Donre shouted, rushing forward and grabbing the man's arm before his stroke fell. The tattooed man growled and struggled against the restraint.

"I've had enough of him to last me a lifetime! Let me kill the fuckin' scib!" he snarled, thrashing against the older man. "Let me kill him!"

"No!" Donre barked, giving Daes a final hard push that caused him to stumble back, eyes still burning with rage. "Did you not hear me? Were you not listening? We need him!"

"No we don't! We can –"

"Can you not see him playing you for the fool?  _Listen!"_  he stressed, pointing down to Cato.

"Fool?  _He's_  the fool –"

"Daes!"

"That  _fucker_  doesn't –"

_"Enough!"_  Donre roared, bringing his hand hard across Daes's face with a sharp  _crack._

Daes dropped his sword and staggered back into the heavy canvas, blue eyes wide in disbelief. He brought a hand up to his cheek, holding it there as he stared at Donre before him, fists clenched and chest heaving.

"Leave," Donre growled, the sound coming from deep in his chest.

Daes stared at him for a moment longer before he picked up his weapon and rushed past the canvas flaps without another sound.

The mute stillness in the tent was almost too much for Lydia. The other Forsworn there did not speak, simply watching the blue-eyed man called Donre as he stood, back to his audience, for what felt like much too long.

"You are hiding her somewhere, I know this," he finally said, twisting around to face Cato, his face no longer showing any signs of pity or care. "Where is she? In a cave? An inn? Did you send her off on a horse before we found you?"

"By the Eight, are you ever thick," Cato sighed.  _"We. Don't. Have. Her."_

"Do not speak to me as if I am a foolish child!" Donre rumbled.

"Then  _shut the fuck up_  and stop acting like one!" Cato snapped, anger darkening his normally smiling face. Lydia blinked.

The blue-eyed man staggered back in surprise. "Was she there when you found us?" Cato hissed. "When you searched our camp, did you find any of her belongings? Another set of footprints? Extra food? Weapons?  _Anything?_ " He eyed the man crossly, waiting for a response he knew would never come.

"We were headed west," he continued, ignoring the perplexed looks on the other Forsworn's faces. "You knew that. You planned on it. I don't know how, but you did. If we had her, we would be heading east, back to Whiterun. Where her temple is. Why in the name of  _any_  divine would we be taking her right into your godsforsaken mountains? We were  _going_  there to  _bring her back."_

The Forsworn warriors had clearly never had much experience interrogating people, because Lydia could see every emotion and thought flicker across their dirt-smudged faces.

Lydia had only just noticed a small tattoo etched on Donre's chest, just above his heart, but she could not make it out. The struggle with Daes had rumpled his tatty armour and shifted his pauldrons enough so it now showed, crude and faded with time.

"Are you convinced? It's really not that difficult," Cato said, then he shook his head and snickered sharply. "I don't even know why I'm arguing with you. That's all we've been doing, this whole fucking time. Running around in circles, bitching back and forth.  _Real_ productive, this. I could just set you all on fire and be done with it, you know," he said, staring hard at the blue-eyed man.

The man took a hesitant step toward Lydia, gripping his weapon tighter, but he did not put it against her throat this time. Had Lydia been in her right mind, she would have been thankful for it.

"Why do you want her, anyway?" Cato asked slowly, and his head cocked to the side in true curiosity. "It's not like you need healers or anything. You have your raven-hag things for that."

"That is no concern of yours," Donre countered, frowning. Lydia could see the dirt etched into the creases of his leathery face. "And they are called Wild-Witches, not the filthy  _hagraven_  you lowlanders befoul their image with. You will show them respect in that regard."

Cato ignored him.

"So what is it, then? Prophecy? Superstition? A price on her head?"

"That is  _not_  for you to –"

"Saw her photo and thought  _hey, what a catch!_  No?"

"Enough of this," Donre growled, clearly not in the mood for another episode. "You will –"

"One of your raven-hags choke on a sweetroll?"

_"Wild-Witches - !"_

"Did she do something to piss you off, then? Say something? Take something, maybe?"

The man stiffened with his mouth open in an unspoken retort and something like anger flashed behind his wild blue eyes.

Cato smiled in full satisfaction, a smile so wide he might have just won everything at a high-stakes drinking game. And maybe he had.

_"Ahh,"_  he crooned slowly. "Well, then. I think we have a winner."

"You!" Donre growled, gesturing to the man with one eye. "Cover his mouth again. Untie him. Quickly!" The one-eyed Forsworn obeyed, shoving the filthy rag back into Cato's smirking mouth and severing his binds with a jagged pocket blade. Donre whispered something into the ear of the man with the braided beard. He nodded, then exited the marquee in a flurry of swishing canvas.

"Take him," he snapped, a dark scowl forming on his face. "I wish to question him. Ignore the wound on his leg. Do not let him speak until we get to The Mother's tent." He watched, frowning in thinly-concealed ire as the one-eyed man and the ugly man who pushed Cato complied.

Cato was dragged roughly to his feet again, wincing at the pain but smiling smugly nonetheless. Rubbing his now-free wrists absentmindedly, he gave Lydia one last look before he left, a look of compassion and reassurance but one that promised his safe return. Lydia smiled back, a smile less sure and one with undertones of confusion and fear. For all she knew, this could be the last time she'd ever see him or his smile.

Before she could truly comprehend that or the sudden change of pace, he was shoved past the canvas flaps and out into the unknown, and Donre did not even look back at her before he left her there, alone, with nothing but the flickering of the torches and the heavy beating of her own heart for company.

* * *

She did not know how long she sat there, in the muffled stillness of the tent. Time seemed ignorant of her suffering, content to flow around her at an unbearably stagnant pace. At times it trickled like a cold spring in the mountains, dripping away hours in each sun-sparkled drop. At others it seemed not to move at all, as if the world itself had paused in its tilt.

And so, with the blood-red paintings of wild things dancing on canvas as her only company, she thought. She thought about many things, because thinking was all she could do.

She thought about her predicament and what that meant. She thought about how easily they'd been ambushed that night. Why did the Forsworn want Danica? Why did they think Cato had her? That was no chance meeting. The wild men of the Reach knew what they were doing.

She thought about Daes and his rage, Donre and his determination. So alike, those two, yet so different. It reminded Lydia of herself and Cato.

She wondered if they knew who Cato was, who  _she_  was, where they came from, where they were going. She wondered the same about them.

She thought about how dark and dry it was in here, and why this big tent was so empty, and how much her head hurt, and if it was bleeding at all. She tried to ignore her growling stomach and the sticky blood on her neck and her parched throat screaming for water.

And she wondered about Aela. Only a little.

She thought about the Forsworn. The Nords. Imperials. Dragons. The Companions, the Guild, the College, the Jarl and his court. About Skyrim and Cyrodiil.

About Cato. His bright eyes she loved so much, his lopsided toothless smile. His infectious laugh heard no matter what fate threw at him. The time she kissed him without fear, and the times she would again. About the lithe gait in which he walked through life, about his scarred hands that she now held, and about the path ahead of them covered in darkness with the gaping jaws of a black dragon at the end.

About what he was doing and where he was right now and, through whatever his interrogators were inflicting upon him, if he was thinking of home or of her.

She thought about home, too, of Whiterun, of the farmhouse on the plains she grew up in. Of her brother, feasting in the high Halls of Sovngarde. Of the mother she couldn't remember. Of the father she wished to forget.

Where was her home now? Breezehome? Perhaps, once. That tiny house had felt more like home than the old farmhouse ever had. But there was a stamp of pain there, now, a stain on the city that might not ever be rubbed away.

Did she not have a home? Were the frigid unswept wilds of Skyrim the only welcome she was to ever receive?

And then an internal derisive snort put her in her place, and she knew then  _home is with Cato, of course._

And in the silence of the tent she smiled to herself.

* * *

She hadn't realised she'd fallen asleep until rough hands dragged her up from the ground.

She winced at the ache in her legs and her pounding head. She blinked once, twice, shaking herself from her sluggish torpor, and opened her eyes to a woman standing in front of her.

"Aela?" Lydia rasped, throat still parched.

The Huntress smiled wryly and nodded, one of her eyes swollen and purple.

_"Be silent,"_ Aela's captor hissed behind her, a scantily-clad square-jawed young woman no older than Lydia herself. A wild red Mohawk spiked down the centre of her head, leaving the rest clean-shaven. She wore the bleached skull of a raven around her neck.

Aela frowned, a look that fit her face more naturally, and shook to throw the woman from her own bound hands.

"I was not speaking," Aela seethed, and Lydia saw her captor's jaw clench. "So do not tell me to be silent."

"Well," Lydia croaked, smiling a little, "I can't really say I'm glad to see you, but I'm sure you know what I mean."

Aela sneered in mock amusement, though Lydia could tell the woman was thinking the same.

She could not see who was behind her, but a rough male voice spoke close to her ear, then. "Come," he said softly. "It is beginning."

He followed Aela and her captor out past the heavy canvas flaps and into the blinding light of the late afternoon sun and the ear-splitting uproar of people cheering, and Lydia blinked around her in wonder.

She had seen the small encampments the Forsworn had out in the wilds, under cliff overhangs or in a pine copse or shallow cave, but never before had she seen a true settlement. And she thought to herself, as her eyes adjusted to the blinding light and explosion of sounds and smells around her, that she could have gone her whole life without it.

The marquee she had been held in must have been on the top of the largest rocky outcropping, for all around her Lydia could see the Forsworn village. The splintering planks strapped to rotting pillars formed a series of crude boardwalks that criss-crossed over the icy grey waters of a slow-moving river. Here and there, a small hide tent or crumbling cabin jutted out over the river, held on to the decaying planks by nothing more than the weathered rope that bound it there. Bones and feathers and blood-red paintings adorned the tents, and human skulls hung down past the entrance of more than a few. Pale eyes peeked out at her from their darkened depths but disappeared before she could get a good look at them.

The entire settlement was built in the basin of the river that carved through the mountains, and she realised that this had been deliberate – the people were hiding. From those that would harm them, or  _for_  those that would stumble in, she could not be certain. The mountains towered sharply all around them, steep and jagged and snow-capped in the distance, and so high that only during the sun's chief hour in the sky could the place be bathed in the light. Deep shadows, whispers of wicked things, clung to the grey stone and gaunt faces as defiantly as the twisted stunted pines.

Down the small rocky hill before her, on the furthest outskirts of the crumbling, decrepit Forsworn settlement, and near the cobbled bank of the river, there was a clearly-defined ring, a battle arena of sorts, and in the centre of it, shivering and surrounded by jeering fur-clad Forsworn, was Cato.

"What's going on?" Lydia asked, voice pitched with fear. "Why is he there?"

"Be silent," Lydia's faceless captor commanded, and he said no more.

He led her behind Aela across the creaking, waterlogged planks and through the throngs of Forsworn settlers, all filthy and scarred and eyeing them as they went. They passed naked, wild children darting through adult legs, clusters of bearded men with scarred chests and hungry stares, old women sitting at the doorways with rotted, yellowing teeth, all of them draped in thick sabre furs and carved bone jewellery and staring out at her with those cold, wild eyes.

These people, this place, all of it was too much for Lydia. The dull grey rock of the Reach, the splintering slats of the clay-roofed huts, the bones and feathers picked clean by the wild people, it all screamed  _death_. The town reeked of the stagnant effluence of human waste mingled with generations of salvaged  _everything._  Even the very human faces of the Forsworn echoed ages of famine and oppression and struggle. Their hollow eyes shimmered with animalistic fear and hunger. Whispers and dark rumours followed her like a hungry blowfly as she went. It was a walking nightmare the likes of which Lydia had never imagined.

They approached the arena slowly, Lydia stumbling over ash-covered cobbles and rain-slicked timber behind Aela and her captor, and stopped at the crude wooden barrier. It was only a few long, twisted pine branches strapped horizontally with twine in the fashion of a very primitive and crude fence. They were not nailed there. Did these people lack even the iron to build their homes?

Jeering and hisses and boos rung loud and harshly in her ears from the people who had flocked behind them, and it took everything she had not to cower from the severity and general cruelty of the sound. The settlers already crowded around the barrier cleared for them, eyeing the two Nords with grim disdain, and Lydia could see Cato on the other side, standing there in the centre, in deep conversation with the blue-eyed man and the fiery-tempered ram-faced man from before.

"Donre!" Lydia's captor bellowed out past her ear, causing her to flinch. "The others have been brought at your command."

All three men looked over at the call, and Donre nodded sternly. He leaned closer to Cato and whispered something else in his ear, but Cato never took his eyes off Lydia.

He looked so tired, so weary, but he managed a smile nonetheless.

Donre cuffed Cato on the arm to get his attention.

A little girl, no more than six or seven, with wild tangled hair and skin so dirty you could not tell her true colour, peeked up at Lydia from behind the legs of a fur-clad woman standing too near. Her blazing azure eyes were hungry with curiosity and there was an innocence in her so out of place in this wild corner of Skyrim that Lydia could do nothing but stare back at her. She carried a crude little pocket-switch, the blade rusted and chipped, and twirled it over absent-mindedly in her tiny soot-stained hands.

"Brothers and Sisters!" a voice bellowed out from the arena, pulling Lydia's eyes away from the girl. All the cold eyes turned to face Donre there, his muscled arms raised in greeting and to capture the attention of the onlookers. The murmurs subsided swiftly. "Mothers and Fathers, you Children of the Reach! Hear me now! Donre of the Druadachs, Kloser of the Free-Spirs! Here me now! " He paused, turning in the absolute silence, nothing but the wind whistling off the crags and the raspy breathing of old women.

"There are Nords in our village," he continued, and Lydia winced at the hissing and boos aimed at her and Aela. All around her she could feel the hatred from the people, the eyes burning with ire. Donre did not attempt to quiet them, and took to pacing around the arena. "We captured them under the light of Secunda three moons ago, in the plains to the east. They had weapons and armour and ill intent. They were heading across  _ou_ r land and into  _our_  mountains."

He stopped, whirling around to face the crowd gathered there. "What right do these thieves, these usurpers, have to walk freely across the land they claim as their own? The land they stole from us in yesteryears?"

_"Thieves!"_  voices from the crowd called.  _"Thieves!" "None!" "Send them to the Maker!"_

"None!" Donre agreed, raising his arms again. "These thieves have no honour!" A cold shiver crept uneasily up Lydia's spine.

This was not a simple meeting. This was a rally. And she had the terrible feeling, deep in her gut, that this day would end in blood – most likely her own. The shadows in the valley cast a grey pall, a sinking blanket of gloom over everything, and Lydia found it hard to breathe.

"They stole our land, our lives, our gods, the  _very things_  that made us human! Our fathers, and their fathers before them, and their fathers before  _them_ , fought and died for the right to call this land our own! The soil of the Reach is stained red with the blood of our fathers. You would have died by the sword that night," he growled, pointing to Lydia and Aela, "had our orders been different and had you not been travelling with this Imperial!"

Lydia swallowed, trembling where she stood. The closeness of her death had never sat so uneasily in the pit of her stomach.

"The Nord healer we were sent to retrieve was not with the thieves," Donre continued, pacing the arena again. "She was not with them, and the Shouter claims ignorance to her location. He does not lie," he admitted bitterly, giving a glare to Cato from the corner of his eye, "and he is free to go. The true Men of the Reach have their honour, guided by the hands of the Old Gods, and there is no quarrel between our races."

There was an uneasy murmur that ran through the crowd at his words, but no protest. Lydia's heart eased. He would be ok. He would live.

"But," Donre added, circling to stand beside Cato, "the Shouter has debts that must be paid." Lydia froze, her breath stolen from her lungs. "And so he shall fight for his freedom, and that of the thieves, here in the Daegen Pit!"

Cries and cheers and wild noises rose from the crowd again, so loud and thundering around Lydia she could feel it beating in her chest. Donre turned to grab hold of Cato's arm and drag him forward.

"The Shouter will fight here in the old ways!" he bellowed over the rising din. "One warrior for one life!" He raised Cato's hand into the air, and the thrumming static of cheering echoed across the rocky Reach and was deafening to Lydia's ears. Her captor thrust her forward through an opening in the pine barrier, and she felt cold, dirty hands pulling and clawing at her tattered clothes and hair, the people roaring in anger and exuberance and the thrill of prospective battle to come. She was hauled to the centre of the arena to stand beside Cato, and Aela was dragged into position on his other side.

"One warrior for the life of the healer you claim to return to us!" Donre bellowed, sending spittle flying from his mouth onto his stained beard. He gestured back to the gate where a towering man with a hard face and a braided blond beard marched through. He was adorned in the classic Forsworn armour Lydia had seen that night, and a crude deer-skull helmet hid his features but showed his icy eyes staring at Lydia with such burning hatred she flinched from his gaze. The man's chest was riddled with scars and elaborate blood-red warpaint and he was missing three of the fingers on his right hand. He stopped a short distance in front of Cato, his approach applauded with deafening screams and shrill cheers.

"One warrior for the life of the woman you claim as your own!" Donre thundered, and Daes stepped forward in line with the first man, a wicked smile on his young face.

"I'm going to kill you, you bastard," he hissed under his breath, blue eyes dancing with glee. "And then I'll take your woman for myself."

Donre frowned. His eyes, the same shade of blue as Daes's, stared hard at the young man.

Daes had adorned himself in typical Forsworn armour with a slick, barbed sword, yet he chose not to wear the helmet. As if to accentuate that fact, he pointed to the ram-head covering the majority of his face and lunged forward, mimicking the actions of the animal itself.

He laughed, then, a wild, mad laugh so faultless in its nature that Lydia would associate it with these people, this place, for as long as she lived.

"One warrior for you, for the life of the one known as the Shouter!" Donre roared, and, if it were possible, the cheers echoed out even louder as a deer-skulled, heavily armoured man stepped through the gate and strode over assertively to stand in beside the other men. His chest was sweat-slicked and war-painted and heaving in excitement and, Lydia could see, gaping where his natural heart should have been. A prickly red and green briar heart was placed precariously there, bloody and oily and stitched in place with twine. The putrid smell of decay emanated from the man, and he wore special armour fashioned with the same wicked barbs and animal teeth as the vicious greatsword he carried. The Forsworn were not a tall people, yet the man towered a head taller than Cato and his fellow companions. He wore a twine necklace around his neck, adorned with feathers and bones and bloody lumps of human flesh. Ears, Lydia thought, and her stomach roiled in revulsion.

And, from beneath his mouldering deer-skulled helmet, Lydia recognised the cruel, hard eyes of the Briarheart who had held his blade against Cato's exposed throat under the blood-red moonlight of Secunda that night.

He was truly a terrible foe, and Lydia's blood ran cold just gazing upon his towering mass.

There was no way Cato could defeat these men. Not in the state he was. She had never seen him so exhausted before, so defeated-looking, not even when he was certain he would die in those Dwemer ruins all that time ago. But his face showed no sign of fear, no hint of the absolute terror he must have been feeling deep in his gut.

A cold sweat broke over Lydia's skin, and she swallowed dryly, her parched throat protesting. Her mind numbed itself in an attempt to disconnect, not truly comprehend that this was happening, that Cato would surely die.

"What about her?" Cato asked stiffly, nodding over to Aela. Donre glanced her way, tilted his head as if thinking, and then nodded.

"You may fight for her freedom as well, Shouter, if you so wish. We will allow you to choose this. You did not express great care for her."

Cato frowned, his tired face smudged with dust and dirt. "And what will happen if I choose not to fight for her?"

"She will remain here," Donre answered over the impatient clamour of the awaiting crowd.

"Here?" Cato asked. "Doing what?"

"She will remain."

Lydia caught the doom in the man's voice, and so did Cato. He turned tired eyes to Aela and, for a moment, contemplated. Aela's face remained defiantly neutral, not showing the fear undoubtedly coursing through her veins, and she stared into his eyes as well, the bright eyes of the man she hated so much – the man who now held her life in his hands.

Lydia held her breath. She did not know what he would choose. He would die, she thought, if he took on another warrior. Another Forsworn, and already there was Daes and his fury, and the Briarheart with black undeath and raw hatred behind his wild eyes. He could barely stand on his feet as it was. Let the vile woman rot here, in this horrid place of stagnant death and cold rocks. It was no worse than she deserved.

After a long moment, Cato sighed and turned back to Donre in front of him.

"Alright," he said, swallowing defiantly. "Add another one."

"No!" Lydia cried, voice raspy from disuse and thirst, and drowned out by the clamour of wild cheering again. Her captor held her back with cold, pinching hands as she made to run to Cato.

"One warrior for the life of the woman you hold no love for!" Donre bellowed over the din, arms raised again.

"I will fight for her," Aela's captor announced, stepping out from behind her. The woman with the square jaw and red Mohawk hair threw a hate-filled glare to Aela, who returned the gesture with equal parts loathing. "I will proudly fight as this thief's  _animorsa_."

Donre nodded. "So be it."

_"No!"_  Lydia screamed again as the clamour rose around her like the sea. And then she and Aela were being dragged away from the centre of the arena, the cold hands grabbing at her and pulling her away from Cato.

In desperation and wild frenzy she thrust out a hand to him. He reached out for it, and she felt his too-warm hand against hers, so unlike the cold ones around her. "Don't do this! Cato,  _please!"_  she cried, and all too soon he slipped from her grasp.

"I'll be fine," he reassured her, smiling tiredly through the sea of faces between them.

_I don't believe you!_  she wanted to scream, but no words came to her.

She was pulled through the opening in the barrier and through the growing crowd of old faces and cold eyes, and dragged up onto a crude platform on the far end of the arena, on the outside and out of reach of the clawing hands and bones around her. Aela was dragged up beside her, and Donre followed in close behind.

Lydia could see the entire arena from this vantage point. It was roughly circular in shape, not huge but it was larger than any she'd ever seen before, all flat and dust covered and rock-free, except for a large square block of grey stone towering taller than even the tallest High Elf right in the centre. There were words carved onto it, some ancient and fading but others fresher. She saw  _Kaie_  and  _Brego the Beast_  and  _Madanach_  written so large she could read it from where she stood, trembling in fear.

There was a great twisted pine beside the barrier and towering above the arena, the tallest tree in the entire valley, its roots weaving into the icy waters of the river nearby. Had the place not reeked of death and despair and shone with a little more light, it might have been beautiful. Maybe it was, once, and the people had poisoned it instead.

The wild cheering barely quieted as Donre raised his hands again. He was so close Lydia could smell his filthy skin and see the raw patch of flesh around a forming scar, the scab picked and bloody.

He did not speak until the crowd had quieted.

"My warriors! You brave Sons and Daughters of the Reach!" he bellowed, addressing the Forsworn  _animorsa_  below him. They were aligned before the Warrior Stone in the centre, tall and menacing and restless, and Cato stood off to the side uneasily, rubbing the back of his neck. He did that sometimes when he was nervous, Lydia thought. No wonder, as he wore no armour. Just the dirty under-armour chemise and loose pants she'd last seen him in. Another strike against him.

Well, she thought, at least they gave him his boots back.

"You have offered your strength and your will in battle against the Shouter so that he might fight for his freedom and that of his companions," he continued, "an honour not won easily. Many have fought in the Pit and have perished, but they are unworthy!"

_"Yes!"_  Daes thundered, pounding his chest wildly along with his fellow warriors.

"But you are strong, all of you, and you will not fail today!  _Today,"_  he boomed, smiling as the crowd began to beat their chests in time with the warriors, "you shall see your names written upon the Stone. Today, the Shouter will meet Death by your hands. He shall know fear before the end. He shall see his death in your face, in your blade. And you shall watch as the light leaves his eyes!"

The crowd roared in approval, the thundering of beating chests and wild screams louder than the roar of a dragon.

_"Dominum Secunda de caelum, aqua, et terra,"_  Donre chanted, and a deep hush fell upon the crowd. A breeze drifted through the valley, and Lydia could almost feel the ancient spirits dancing around her. The warriors halted their war cries and put their closed fists to their chests respectfully. _"Audite me: mitto bellatorum ad gloriam et exaltatione. Ad Mortem! Ad astra!"_

_"Ad Mortem! Ad astra!"_  the warriors cried.

Daes lifted his fist in the air in reverence, looked up to Donre in the stands, and said,  _"pro vobis, Pater,"_  before placing his hand flat across his heart. Donre copied him soundlessly, nodding proudly.

"Shouter, thieves, you who do not belong here, I ask you a question now," he bellowed in the reverent silence, voice echoing in the grey-palled valley. "You wish to know who the Forsworn are?" He let the question hang there for a long moment. "Listen, and I will tell you who we are.

"We are the people who must pillage our own ground. We are those that must live alongside death and fear in the hopes that one day our children will have a home. We are the scourge of the Nords. We are the axe that falls in the dark. The scream before the Old Gods claim your soul. We are the Eaters of the Dead, the Picts of Secunda herself. We are the true Sons and Daughters of the Reach!" he cried, and a deafening din of agreement rose up like a smothering wave before him.

"This was our land. We were here first. Then the Nords came and put chains on us. Those few of us who refused to bow became the Reachmen, outsiders in our own land.

"The spirits and hags and wild things of this land have lived here from the beginning, and they are on our side. The water is our blood, the soil our flesh, the living things our brothers and sisters. The thunder is our heartbeat, and the dark places of the world we have known better than any other."

He gripped the railing of the barrier, knuckles white as he stared down at Cato. Standing beside him Lydia could make out the tattoo on his chest, now, where it was indistinct before. It was only small and faded with time, but it was there.

A ram-head, its curling horns nearly obscured by a pale scar that ran through it.

"So go, Shouter, if you fell my warriors this day. Go back and tell your Empire that we will have our own kingdom again. And on that day, we will be the ones burying your dead in a land that is no longer yours."

And with that, his hands came down swiftly before him, and the Forsworn warriors rushed forward with wild screams and barbed weapons raised.

Cato's chest heaved and he managed to Shout before they reached him.

_"FUS ROH DAH!"_

Three of the warriors were blasted off their feet to the sounds of appalled gasps from the crowd. The Mohawked woman and Daes tumbled to the side, and the Briarheart merely stumbled forward, but the man with the braided beard was not as lucky. He had taken the brunt of the Shout directly and was slammed back midway into the towering pine, landing on the ground in a crumpled heap with needles and branches showering down around him. He did not move again.

Danica's  _animorsa_  had been defeated. She was free.

The Briarheart recovered quickly and rushed forward, swinging his wicked greatsword in a high, swooping arc. Cato ducked and rolled out of the way lithely, sprinting to the far side of the arena before the Briarheart even followed through.

Past the other warriors rolling in pain on the ground, past the Warrior Stone in the centre, he kicked up dust as he went and skidded to a halt at the fallen man's side, brushing away the needles. He grabbed hold of the Forsworn's hooked short sword and smiled.

And it was then Lydia realised – he had not been given a weapon. They had sent him in with four barbarian warriors – one of them a maniacal Briarheart – and they had given him  _no weapons_. Rage boiled up inside her.

"They didn't –"

"I know," Aela responded bitterly, gazing out with a clenched jaw at the battle below. "They do not want him to be victorious."

_"Of course_  they don't," Lydia snapped, watching with dread as the other two warriors heaved themselves up onto their feet. "It's pretty fucking obvious."

Aela glanced at Lydia sideways, slow surprise on her face.

It would not be until much later that Lydia realised what she had said then.

She huffed in impatience, in anger, in such deep fear. "Why is this happening?" she muttered, heart leaping into her throat as she watched Cato dodge the woman's crude war axe and parry a heavy thrust from the Briarheart. "Why does this  _always_ happen?"

"Because," Aela said beside her, the workings of a smile on her face. "Nothing in life goes easy once you've met the Dragonborn."

The Huntress had probably meant that as an insult, but Lydia was reminded of something Farkas had said to her that night in Jorrvaskr.

_I guess the gods have plans for him, being Dragonborn and all. They wouldn't have chosen him if he was going to slip and break his neck on some ice._

Or be skewered by a Briarheart in unfair, unarmed, outnumbered combat. She hoped.

Nevertheless, she grasped out at that small beacon of hope and clung to it with everything she had.

Daes shook off the Shout, stumbling around, and watched as Cato grabbed the blade and took off across the arena again. His eyes fell on the form of his fallen ally, crumpled and twisted awkwardly beneath the towering pine.

"Mak!" he cried, then turned blazing, venomous eyes onto Cato and leapt out to intercept him with a vicious growl. He took a wild swing with his blade at Cato's head, fury burning on his young face.

"You  _fucker!"_  Daes screamed, lunging out again and again. "You killed him!"

"I did," Cato breathed, dodging the wild swings. "He would have killed me."

"You Shouted at him! You blew him off his feet! You did not even let him die with honour!"

"Was there another way I was supposed to do it?"

Daes growled again. "Not – not like that!" He met Cato's thrust easily and pushed him back with a grunt. "What's with the trees?"

"Not sure," Cato breathed, taking advantage of the momentary pause and keeping the flanking Briarheart within sight. "Never used that little trick before. They  _do_  tend to be quite efficient at killing Forsworn, though."

Daes growled and leaped forward wildly. Cato saw his opening and side-stepped him, swinging around to aim a hard kick square in the gut. The Forsworn grunted, and the Imperial whipped around to push him over into the dust.

He could have killed Daes then, Lydia realised. She had seen a thousand opportunities, a thousand little mistakes, and yet he hadn't. Perhaps he saw something in the fiery eyes that Lydia's trained ones could not.

The Mohawked woman swung her axe down into the ground where he stood. Cato skipped out of the way, watching the axe send dust and bits of dirt flying into the air. As she struggled to remove it, he turned, and in one lithe motion he dodged the Briarheart's swooping greatsword and brought the stolen sword neatly across the arm that held the axe.

The woman screamed in pain and outrage as she let her axe fall to the dusty ground with a dull thud, clutching at the deep gash in her sword arm. Crimson blood seeped past her fingers and dripped to the dirt.

_"FUS!"_  he Shouted to the Briarheart, the part-Shout not strong enough to do anything more than trip the hulking warrior. But it did what it was meant to do.

Distract.

Cato knelt and thrust the hooked sword forward, the crude blade ripping through the woman's soft flesh with a gut-wrenching tearing sound.

With any normal levelled iron or steel blade, the blow would have killed instantly, would have slid through the heart and ended it. As it was, the Forsworn weaponry was crude and basic at best. The sword was bent, and the barbs detracted from the weapon's true aim, pulling it in differing directions, making every kill unique and brutal.

The sword missed the woman's heart and pierced her lung. Her whole body seemed to contort, to implode on itself, and Cato knew the woman saw her death in his eyes. She shuddered off the blade and crumpled to the ground, writhing and gasping in agony as blood filled her lungs and slowly drowned her.

Cato's eyes widened in shock as he stared down at her. Lydia's heart ached for him through her elation at another elimination. She knew he did not enjoy killing, and this – this slow, painful death, even of that of an enemy bent on murdering him – it was too much.

The Briarheart recovered before Cato did and thrust out his hand with a wild roar. A surge of energy struck Cato so hard he flew from his feet and through the air, landing near the Warrior Stone in a crumpled heap of pain.

Lydia gasped.

_"Get up!"_  she cried, ignoring the rising cheers as the Forsworn began to close the gap between him and his prey. "Cato,  _move!"_

Cato staggered to his knees, face etched in pain as he felt around for his weapon. He blinked and his eyes landed on the sword some five metres from where he now knelt.

The Briarheart stepped over the gasping form of the woman, ignoring her as if she was a rock on the path, his eyes burning with mad glee behind the deer-skull mask. He hefted his massive greatsword high above his head, storming closer and closer, and yet Cato did not move.

"What are you  _doing?!"_  Lydia howled, gripping the railing so hard splinters were digging into her battle-hardened hands. Her heart thudded in her chest madly and she was shaking so bad she did not know how she was still standing.  _"Run!"_

But he didn't, and when the Briarheart was just a few steps away, close enough to see the ridges on the sabre-cat teeth spiking his armour, he sucked in a chestfull of air and Shouted into the man's sneering face.

_"YOL TOOR SHUL!"_

In the dusk of the shadow-filled valley fire erupted, crimson and gold, a blazing ring of fire that exploded in a roaring fury of sparks and blackened smoke. And, for a moment, the valley lit up, light reaching places where it hadn't in long ages. It rose into the air in a tall pillar, completely consuming the Briarheart within it.

Daes, who had recovered and picked up his sword, threw himself out of reach of the blazing inferno, and watched with wide eyes framed by the curling ram horns as the man before him spit forth fire like a dragon out of legend.

There was a moment, so still and blinding, where the pale eyes of the Forsworn stared up at the roaring blaze, its light flickering on their sun-thirsty faces. And then much of the crowd around the arena shrieked and scattered before the fire, a mass of clawing and scrambling and cold, cold eyes as they disappeared into the shadows of the boardwalks and the grey stone like some wild thing.

Lydia shielded her eyes from the heat, and so did Aela, and Donre beside her shrunk back from the light, his eyes wide in pure unaltered awe.

The fire reached its hands up into the pine above the arena, catching its needles and searing them black. Little fiery embers rained down from the branches like snow, swirling softly as they fell.

And when the fire died in a  _whoosh_ of air there stood the Briarheart in the centre, his hand raised before him, his body shimmering behind the globe of a shield spell. The Warrior Stone behind him was blackened with ash, and yet the man had not been touched by the blaze. He smiled wickedly.

He took three steps and was suddenly there, lifting Cato off the ground by the front of his shirt. He said something to him, but Lydia could not hear. And then he turned round and tossed him with unnatural ease against the Warrior Stone, and Lydia gasped as she watched him slump against it. Daes stood up and watched, his sword gripped tightly in his hands, but the anger on his face not quite as ferocious as it had been, and maybe tinged with something like fear.

Too exhausted by his Shout to protest, Cato was lifted again by his collar, but this time the Briarheart did not let him go. Pressing his prey against the grey stone, the man reached into his belt and pulled out a little knife, jagged and rusted with a carved bone hilt, and brought it in front of the Imperial's face.

"That was a dirty trick you played back there," he growled, licking his yellowed teeth in excitement, his rancid breath reeking of rot. Cato struggled to be free of it, but the man was much too strong. The spikes and teeth lining his crude armour dug into Cato's flesh as he pressed his bulk up against the other man.

"A souvenir," he said, twirling the little knife near the side of Cato's head, caressing his ear almost lovingly in a sick, twisted way. "For my collection. I don't have an Imperial here, but I guess you're more dragon, really."

Through the flecks of falling embers Cato glanced down to the Briarheart's twine necklace set against his bare chest, adorned with feathers and bone and lumps of bloodied human flesh. Ears.

Cato's eyes flew open.

_"No!"_  he bellowed and, using the Warrior Stone behind him, brought his knees up and pushed off the Briarheart's massive bulk.

He fell to the ground as the man staggered back, rolled to the side, and snatched up the sword he'd dropped from before.

Eyes darting around wildly at the seething, roaring Briarheart and the young muscled body now rushing forward to seize this chance, he knew he had little time. And what he did now mattered. For his life, for Danica's life, for the life of the woman watching him from the stands. He smiled as he thought of her.

Chest heaving, blood rolling down his face, throat burning from the Shouts, he rolled once more and rose to his knees as he feinted an attack on the Briarheart, leaving his back exposed to the other warrior. With a strained cry as he turned from the wild eyes of the Briarheart, he whipped around just in time to plunge the barbed sword into Daes's bare chest.

Again like it had before, there was an electrifying instant of stillness in which Cato gazed upon his foe and watched him die. It seemed to him as if the light in the young man's eyes simply flickered and went out like a candle flame. One moment he was alive, his entire being set on sliding his sword through the Imperial's back, and the next he was simply gone.

_"No!"_  Donre screamed, an unnaturally shrill, raw sound as he clasped onto the railing with the intensity of a winter storm.  _"My son!"_

But Cato did not hear him, for he rolled yet again, leaving the blade deep into Daes's chest, and stood up to face the Briarheart before him. The look of simple surprise on the man's face faded as quickly as it had come when Cato thrust his hand forward and ripped the briar heart from the man's gaping chest.

He fell with a loud thud to the ground before Cato's feet, kicking up dust and swirling around embers from the scorched pine above.

Silence. An absolute, achingly cold silence, the likes of which haunted dreams and held the places where spirits went to wander.

Cato stood inside the carnage bathed in blood that was not his, grasping the oily briar heart tight in his trembling hand. His breath came out in ragged, raspy gasps, the loudest sound in the entire valley.

He looked up into the stands above him, into the cold, even eyes of Aela, the wide, hysterical eyes of Donre, and the bright, frozen eyes of Lydia beside them.

He raised the heart up high. "I won," Cato said to Donre, his quiet voice maddeningly loud in the absolute silence. "I fought your warriors and I won. So let me go. Let my people go."

Nobody moved, and nobody dared breathe. So Cato dropped the heart into the dust and strode from the Warrior Stone, stepping over Daes's young body and the body of the woman, now dead, her rumpled Mohawk the colour of the blood pooling around her.

People started moving again, and murmurs rose from the dark places of the valley, and an old woman came back with their weapons and armour and supplies, handing the fur bundle to Cato with black fear in her ancient eyes. He took it and stepped through the arena gate, the remaining spectators parting like a wave as he passed. Lydia watched with wide eyes as he made his way to the stand, stopped before it, and said "Come. Let's leave this place."

So they left, oblivious to the susurrus mounting again, through the throngs of wild people and feathers and bones.

Despite the cold fear clinging to her heart, Lydia turned before they left the valley. The villagers had swarmed the arena and were stripping the bodies of the fallen warriors, taking their weapons, their clothes, their teeth and their nails, anything they might use.

And through the sea of gaunt faces and rain-washed furs, Lydia saw a small girl, no more than six or seven, with wild tangled hair and skin so dirty you could not tell her true colour, wipe away a patch of ash from the Warrior Stone from her perch upon it. She was carving something there with her chipped little pocket-switch, her brilliant azure eyes a beacon amidst the death and decay.

Fate is a strange thing. Or maybe it was luck, or chance, even, that stopped Lydia from watching what the little girl wrote. Because Cato grabbed her hand and smiled tiredly at her through his pain and suffering, and she smiled back.

"That was brave," she coughed, her throat still parched. "Thank you."

"Hey," he rasped, voice barely audible from the force of his Shouts. He smiled. "Anything for you."

And they left. But sometimes, as the years passed and when Lydia thought back on this adventure, she liked to imagine the crude  _S_  the child had finished before she turned away from the valley was still there, scratched roughly in the tall stone under the towering pine tree by the slow, lazy river. And she liked to imagine it stayed that way, out of respect and fear.

And she liked to think it said  _Shouter._

* * *

 

 

**A/N: Wow! So how was that?**

**Here's some translations for what Donre and Daes were saying. It's Latin, by the way.**

**_Latin:  Dominum Secunda de caelum, aqua, et terra,_ a _udite me: mitto bellatorum ad gloriam et exaltatione. Ad Mortem! Ad astra!_**

**_English:  Lord Secunda of the sky, water, and earth, hear me now: send these warriors to glory and exaltation. To death! To the stars!_ **

**_Latin:  pro vobis, Pater_ **

**_English:  for you, Father_ **

**_Animorsa is a random word I made up, haha._ **


	13. The Thief

**A/N: Hello again readers!**

**What's this? Only a couple weeks and a new chapter? Hell must have frozen over!**

**Enjoy! Super fluffiness and romance and stuff happens here. A little bit is explained regarding the Forsworn conspiracy (see what I did there?) but more will happen later. I just wanted to stem the growing tide of impatient people coming at me with pitchforks yelling _"Romance! We want Romance!"_**

**Well, here you go, you barbarians.**

* * *

"It was Danica," Cato said as he washed the soap from his dirt-smudged arms, shivering in the knee-deep frozen waters of the Karth River. "They wanted Danica, and they thought we had her."

Lydia frowned down at him from where she lounged on the sloping grassy bank, idly cleaning the head of her axe with a scrap of cloth. "I could have told you that much."

He returned the frown, wincing as he did so. The cut above his brow, despite careful attention, was deep and still painful. The bruise painted across his temple was a testament to that.

"Hm. Guess so." He flicked the frigid water from his arms then turned round to look off to the western mountains, snow-capped in the distance, where the sun was slowly sinking and pitching brilliant reds and purples, the salty colours of rust, streaking across the sky, reflecting off the frail wispy clouds above. He simply gazed at the beauty of the world for a long moment, and Lydia wondered if he was really appreciating it as much as it looked like he was.

He turned back to her after another long moment. "But do you know why?"

She'd wondered that, ever since she'd been dragged awake in the Forsworn tent that morning. She shook her head, running the cloth along the sharp blade etched with intricate patterns of dragons and men and the two moons above. "No."

He sighed tiredly, a long, deep sigh of contentment and encroaching exhaustion, then pulled the grimy, blood-stained chemise off over his head and tossed it lazily onto the grassy riverbank. The shirt nearly disappeared into the tall grasses with a sharp  _shhht_ , the brown blades crisped with the onset of autumn frost and impending degeneration.

"Remember that time we were sent to take the sap from the big tree in the cave? To bring it back for the Gildergreen?"

"Mhm," Lydia acknowledged, but she wasn't listening. She'd glanced up from cleaning her axe and had been hooked into shamelessly eyeing Cato's very dirty, very defined, very  _naked_  upper half.

She'd seen him like this before, of course, during partnered combat training sessions or summer nights in the tent or times just like this, when they could naught but bathe in the frigid rivers far from any decent inn and clean water, but she'd never really  _looked_  at him.

And, she thought to herself with barely concealed zest, she had been sorely missing out.

His tanned chest was mostly bare except for his scars, of course, old and new, some long and thin, others short and jagged. She had seen them all before, knew their stories, but they did not detract from the clearly defined, yet somehow subtly prevalent physique displayed before her.

He lacked the pure brawn and muscle of other Nord men she'd seen, but that didn't matter. Years of combat and swordplay had moulded his chest and arms and stomach into lean, sinewy boughs of sun-kissed skin pulled taut over his dragon-hot flesh.

She would have liked to use words such as  _muscular_  and  _rippling_  and  _strong_  as she watched him then, but they were simply not true. He wasn't any of those – he never had been, and he probably never would. He was not perfect, not some carved statue out of legend or a hero delivered by the gods. He was a man, nothing more.

But there was a certain kind of beauty to it, to him, all its own, and Lydia found she did not care and she could not look away. Her eyes roamed boldly over his bare chest, his arms, his shoulders, around the curve of his neck, the dip of his navel, the smooth plane of his stomach, the bone of his hips, watching him as he washed the dust and dirt and blood from his skin.

She had felt his skin before, had held his hand and kissed his lips and touched nearly every part of him. But in a different way, a friendly way, and she found herself wanting to touch him in a new way and know for certain what his chest would feel like  _now,_  if his stomach really was as hard as it looked, where that long scar across his flat stomach ended as it disappeared down past the hem of his pants.

"So?" he asked, tearing her gaze from his body back to his face where she saw a small curve to his lips, as if there were something terribly funny only he knew the answer to.

"So what?" she said innocently enough, clearing her throat.

He stood in the knee-deep water and opened his arms wide, theatrically like only he could, his small smile growing broader. "What do you think?"

She faked a frown but failed. "About what?"

"About the weather lately."

Her face twisted in confusion and he laughed, wide enough to show her the missing tooth.

"I saw you watching me," he chided, a cocky smile on his face. "You're not very subtle, you know."

Lydia blushed, her cheeks turning a deep red.

"No I wasn't."

"Yes you were," he smirked. "You still are."

"No I'm not!" she protested, frowning as Cato let out a loud laugh again, the sound drifting through the grasses rustling around her. "You're right in front of me and there's nothing else to look at."

"Nothing?" he grinned, and she couldn't find it in her to be angry at him, not when he smiled at her like that. "Not the beautiful mountains or the sunset or the river?"

She huffed in defeat, giving him a cursory frown.

"I won't lie, you're kind of cute when you get all ruffled like that," he smirked. "You're blushing."

Her stomach fluttered a little.  _"Kind of cute?"_  she chided, unable to keep the smile from forming on her face. She crossed her arms in mock censure. "You call the mountains beautiful but I'm only  _kind of cute?"_

"You have to  _earn_  it, you know," he said. "There's a hierarchy, see. The mountains have been here for much longer, and they have snow on them, and they catch the light  _just_  right." He shrugged, a smirk still on his face. "You want my opinion?"

"No."

"Just give yourself another million years, maybe. Then you might be beautiful."

"Is that right?"

"You're questioning my validity?"

"You're such a charmer, you know. Really," she said flatly, though failing to keep her face stony. "I don't know how you do it."

"It's alright," he said, bending down to splash the soap from his chest. "If I were a woman I couldn't keep my hands off me either."

"Hm," Lydia mused, finding it rather difficult to concentrate on only his face. "I've been doing a pretty good job of it."

"So far," he countered, cupping a handful of water and running it through his hair. "Fuck, this water is  _freezing."_

"Well, you  _are_  in Skyrim," Lydia smiled as he shook the water from his hair, showering little drops into the lazy river around him. "And it  _is_ almost winter."

"Hm. Right.  _Almost_  forgot. Don't know what I'd do without you."

"Such sarcasm."

"Such obliviousness."

"To what?" she asked, eyeing him curiously.

"To this!"

He rushed out of the water then with a determined grin on his face, noisily splashing and slipping on river-cobbles as he went, and clambered up the small grassy slope to where Lydia sat with her axe. Realising what he was doing a moment too late, she scrambled to her feet but was caught around the waist and spun around to him, the world swirling warmly and stridently around her, and held close to his bare chest by a pair of strong arms.

"Cato, stop!" she laughed, struggling to free herself from his freezing, dripping hug. "You're getting me soaked!"

"No!" he grinned, tightening his arms around her warm, dry body, revelling in the feeling of her dancing hair on his skin and the intimate proximity to her. "I forgot my towel."

"Then go get it!" She pushed her hands against his chest to throw him off her, but he was too strong. And she didn't really want to leave him, if she were honest.

Squinting in the dying light and through their mutual laughing, she could feel how hard and toned he was – all firm muscle and dormant strength. She stopped struggling to get away and just stood there, her hands pressed flat against his wet chest, feeling the texture of his skin beneath her fingers. Her hands looked pathetically pale next to his skin, tanned from the southern sun and the Imperial blood running through his veins, pumping through his body by the heart she could feel just under her palm.

It called to everything female in her, everything basic and primal she hadn't known was ever there. It made her body flush, her heart throb in her chest.

He leaned back to watch her, smiling as she stared at him. He could feel her breath on his skin, so warm against his icy flesh. But then her eyes grew wide when she realised what she was doing, and she took her hands from his chest, the cold air rushing to replace where her warm hands had been.

He took the hint and let his hands slide from her waist reluctantly.

"Ah," she coughed, not a little awkwardly, still standing so close it almost hurt. She forced herself to look into his eyes, glinting with curiosity and maybe something else. "So. This tree, then."

"Right," he agreed, taking her hand and moving to sit in the swaying grass back near her axe.

He could have made fun of her, she realised, about being unable to keep her hands from him, but he didn't. She was glad.

She sat down where she had before, back in the little flattened nest she'd made, and he sat next to her, again so close it was near maddening, almost touching her but just far enough that his leg or his arm grazed her every moment or so. He was doing that on purpose, she decided, and of course he would.

She watched as he leaned over to pull a clean white shirt from his pack and pull it over his damp head, down over his still-wet chest. She was glad for that, too, though she lamented that one a bit.

"The Gildergreen," he began, resting his arm lazily on a bent knee. "The Gildergreen was dying. Remember? The leaves were falling off. It'd hadn't flowered in years, apparently, and there was black stuff oozing out of it. Looked more than a little ragged."

"Yes," she agreed. "I barely remember it how it used to be."

"You remember?" he asked, eyeing her quizzically, but realisation dawned quickly enough on his face.  _"Right._  Of course. You grew up there."

"It was beautiful, once," she said, remembering back to her childhood. She smiled, pulling her legs up near her chest like she would have twenty years ago, and probably hadn't since.

Cato leaned over to see her face more clearly. "What?" he asked after watching her a moment. There was a long blade of grass in his hand, twisted and torn by his unconscious fidgeting. He tended to do that.

"Nothing," she said, smiling faintly at the setting sun. "Just… remembering."

"Tell me," he said softly, touching her arm with his warm fingers. "I want to know."

She smiled at his too-warm touch, at his own soft smile, at the thing he said.

"My brother climbed the tree once, a long time ago. We were only children then, visiting the market with our father." Cato noticed her eyes narrow at the mention of Hrongar, and he saw she was trying to hide that from him. He let it go. "We were never really allowed up into the Wind District. Too many things to break, we were told. But we didn't listen."

"Of course."

"We snuck away one day, only because we wanted to see why we couldn't go there. Children do that, you know. Tell them they can't and they want to even more than before. Anyways," she shrugged, "long story short: he climbed the tree and he fell out of it and broke his arm." She smiled again. "I think I cried more than he did."

She looked over to Cato, at his smile and his damp hair and the sunset burning just behind him, causing the dying light to glint off the drops of water clinging to his skin, like little stars in the dusk. It was beautiful.

"I've never told anyone that before," she admitted. "I'm glad we kept the tree."

"Well, me too," he grinned, squeezing her forearm encouragingly before letting it go. "Now a whole new generation of little boys can climb it and break some bones."

"Always thinking practically," she smirked.

"Always." He flashed a smile back, a striking smile so attractive to her that her heart almost leapt right out of her throat.

"Anyways," she pressed, eager to stem the growing redness in her face and the heat inside her. "The tree. The sap. The cave."

"Right," Cato said, shifting where he sat, his shoulder brushing against hers. "The tree. We were sent to get some sap for it, in a cave somewhere. From another tree. To fix it I guess. Not sure. Danica was the one who sent us to collect the sap. I hadn't realised I'd met her before, not until you told me what she looked like."

"That was a long time ago," she said, stretching her memory back.

"It was. If you remember, she told us the healers at the Temple use the Gildergreens's sap to heal their patients. Has some magical properties, I guess. I don't know. But the past few years had been particularly bad, apparently. Not enough sap, or not good enough, or something."

"Both, I think," Lydia added.

He nodded. "Probably."

"I'm remembering, now," she said, squinting a little in thought. "She gave us a weapon, didn't she? To take the sap. A sword or something? A dagger, maybe?"

"Yeah," he grimaced, the action causing his leg to graze her own. "Nettlebane, it was. A little ebony dagger. Didn't look very sharp, but I cut myself half a dozen times on that little bastard."

"I remember," Lydia smirked. "You cried like a little schoolgirl for an entire day."

"Did I now?" he said, smiling as she laughed. "You know, I seem to recall you bitching most of the way back for making you carry all the junk we found."

"Because it was  _junk,"_  Lydia countered, punching him playfully in the arm. "It was  _useless._  You barely made ten Septims on all of it."

"Hey, a Septim's a Septim," he shrugged, rubbing absentmindedly at his arm. "Forgive me for being frugal. You know how much food you can buy with that?"

"Yes, actually, I do. Maybe half a sweetroll."

"Nah," he scoffed, blowing her off with a wave of his hand. "More than that."

"You don't buy the food, Cato, so you have no idea," she said, knitting her brows. "A carrot is four gold."

"What?" he cried, cocking his head to stare at her. "No. You're exaggerating, now."

"I am not."

"You must be."

_"_ _Cato –"_

_"_ _Alright,"_  he yielded, unable to keep a smile from his face as Lydia smirked triumphantly. "You win. I'm  _sorry_  for making you carry all that junk  _three years ago_. Happy?"

She frowned. "That wasn't very sincere, you know."

"Ah… sorry?" he offered.

She shrugged indifferently. "I guess it'll do."

"Gods," Cato laughed, rocking back and rubbing a hand over his jaw, over the short stubble there. "You'll be the death of me, you know. You'll kill me before I reach thirty."

"Still got a few years, then."

He grinned. "I'll watch my back."

"Alright," she began, collecting her thoughts. "Enough talking. You're distracting me."

"Ah, yes. We're terrible, you know. How do we ever get anything done?"

"You get things done because I'm here."

"That so?"

_"_ _Back on track,"_  she smirked. "So. Tree dying, need sap, go get sap. Got sap. Tree fixed."

"Right."

"But what does the Gildergreen have to do with the Forsworn?"

Cato smiled at her from the corner of his mouth. "Impatient."

"Not impatient, just observant."

"That so?"

"Just tell me, Cato."

He smiled again. "Remember what we found in the cave?"

Lydia frowned a little in thought, thinking back. That trip hadn't taken more than a half day, and it was so long ago and had been crowded out my greater, more dangerous adventures since, but she did remember.

"Hagravens," she answered, shuddering as she recalled the foul, cackling half-woman, half-bird hybrids and their luminescent shining eyes in the dark dank of that cave, clustered around the gnarling roots of the massive tree. And then it clicked.

"Oh," she said.

Cato smiled, watching the comprehension dawn on her face.

" _Exactly._ They were pissed," he began, "because Danica had stolen Nettlebane from them and used it to corrupt the big tree in the cave.  _Their_  tree. The Forsworn, I mean."

"So,  _not_ the Gildergreen."

"No."

"But, Cato," Lydia began, face twisting in confusion, "Danica didn't –"

"I know she didn't," he said, absentmindedly twirling another blade of grass in his hand. "But they thought she did. You think I was about to tell them  _we_  were the ones who did it? Poisoned the tree and killed their raven-hag things?"

She frowned again. "…I guess not."

"Exactly."

"But who told  _them?"_  she stressed. "Someone must have let them know about us, must have tipped them off or something."

"I know."

"That was so long ago, the tree. Why does it matter now? How did they know where we were going? That you were Imperial? And what do  _they_  want with us?"

_"_ _That,"_  he smirked, "is a really good question."

"You didn't find out?"

"No. I was in deep enough shit as it was, just being there. And you," he said, looking at her, his bright eyes glinting with hints of past horrors. "They wanted to kill you. They almost did, a few times."

"I know," she said, shuddering, the memories all too clear. "I heard them. How did you…?"

"Lydia," he said, almost condescendingly. "It's  _me_  we're talking about here. Remember the time I convinced an entire tribe of bandits to turn around and let us pass the bridge? I won them over with my  _endearing_  charm and wit, you know. Even convinced them to hand over a few of their coin purses."

She smiled. "That's not really how it went."

He shrugged. "Whatever. Point is, I saved your ass.  _Again._  It's about time you returned the favour."

"Don't worry," she said. "I'm sure I will soon. It's only been a few days and already we've been captured by Forsworn, and you were thrown into a battle arena, four against one. With a  _Briarheart._ And we haven't even found Danica yet."

"Hm. True," he said, pondering that for a bit. And then, leaning back in the grass, added "that  _was_  pretty impressive, wasn't it?" He smiled a little as he earned a loud laugh from Lydia. "What?"

"Nothing," she said, her smile wide. "Just you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know," she smiled. "Just…  _you."_

"Alright then,  _don't_  tell me," he moped, though he smiled a little anyways. "It's not like I saved  _your_  ass as well as Aela's. And Danica's." He cocked his head, thinking. "Not sure why I had to fight for her, though, seeing as she wasn't even there."

Lydia frowned a little, the unwelcome memories flickering through her mind. "Why did you do that?" she asked, causing him to turn to her. "You could have died."

"What?" he asked, clearly confused. "Fight for Danica? It's not like I had a choice."

"No," Lydia said slowly. "For Aela. And you  _did._ "

He turned from her to the river with a frown on his face, contemplating. The sun had disappeared behind the western mountains now, the last streaks of scarlet and gold bleeding the sky and giving way to a dark, moonless night. The water reflected this light, catching it and sending it scattering in a million different directions.

This place could not have been more beautiful, not even if immortalised in a painting or imagined in a dream. There was something else here, something no canvas could ever dream to capture: a deep sense of time, three-dimensional and lasting, old as the mountains in the distance, yet ever-changing as the cold waters in the river before them.

A soft wind, a cold wind hinting at the coming winter, carried across the water, rustling the tall dry grasses near the riverbank and causing the soft blue grass surrounding them to pulsate and shimmer like the waves of the sea.

He shrugged after a moment, watching the water go on its slow, everlasting journey, the blade of grass in his hand nearly destroyed from his toying.

"I don't know," he said. "It just… seemed  _wrong_  to leave her there, you know? I mean, well, she hates my guts, and I have to say I'm not too fond of her either, but I just… couldn't."

"You could have died," she said again, voice strained, noting how he refused to look at her. "You could have died saving her."

"Yeah," he shrugged, "and I could have died saving you. What's the difference?"

"The difference?" she asked, appalled he'd even said that. "Cato, the  _difference_ was another Forsworn in the ring with you! It only takes one person to kill, you know, and she could have been it!" The Mohawked woman's snarling face flashed across her mind, her crimson hair spiked tall. "And for  _her,_ out of every person in Tamriel! What has Aela ever done for you?"

He shrugged again, remaining silent.

"If you had died, Cato, I don't know – I couldn't –"

"You'd be out of a job?" he smiled timidly, gazing at her now.

"Just –" she clenched her jaw, refusing to let herself get worked up over that woman. Aela's presence in the trees behind them, milling around or cleaning her weapons or whatever it was she was doing near the fire, burned in an almost audible sense, prickling uncomfortably at her back.

"Just –" she began again, then sighed. "I swear to the Nine, Cato, if you  _ever_  die for her, I'll bring you back to kill you myself."

"We disagree on a lot of things," he said quietly, shrugging one shoulder lamely. "But she's still a Companion, and so am I. She's my Shield-Sister. That won't ever change."

Another wind stirred through the grasses around them, rustling almost soundlessly and swishing against them almost imperceptibly.

He turned to face her again after a long moment and caught her eyeing him strangely. "What?"

She smiled slowly, a low, rolling smile that burned with pride. "Just…  _you."_

" _Just me_  again? Just me? What is it with this  _just me_  shit?" he chuckled, ribbing her playfully, and flashing a wide smile as she laughed.

Lydia smiled back after she caught her breath. Her heart fluttered in her chest at his smile, his eyes, his casual proximity to her. The icy drops of river water had dried from his skin, yet they still clung to his short hair defiantly.

She sat there, in the grass by the river at dusk, and just looked at him. And there was this feeling… she couldn't quite describe it, didn't really know what it was, but she knew she'd never felt it before. Not like this.

She felt it in the pit of her stomach but it stretched further than that, snaking out like a vine, like tendrils, like the fibrous roots of grass into every large and insignificant part of her. A low-burning heat, an all-consuming fire spreading through her veins and making her heart thrash just by looking him in the eyes.

An insane sort of sanity, calm and yet completely unnerved, and a billion other oxymorons. An overwhelming, smothering chasm, without bound or length or depth, swelling like the sea after snowmelt.

It terrified her, churned a fear so deep inside her and yet she wanted nothing more than to leap into the abyss.

And then it subsided all too soon, like the receding tide, but the footprints in the sand still remained. She doubted they would ever leave her now.

"You should really dry off, Cato," she said affectionately, running her hand through his hair, something she had done in lighthearted fun before but which now held a different meaning. "You'll freeze to death. It's supposed to be cold tonight."

He smiled, catching her hand before it fell to her side. It was wet and cold and rough, but her hand felt good in his nonetheless.

"You worried about me?" he asked in a low voice, failing to keep the smile from his handsome face.

"A little," she admitted, relishing in this quiet moment they had, in the feeling of his hand in hers, of his bright eyes shining with that look he'd only just starting giving her lately. "Only because you're not smart enough to not catch a cold."

He chuckled quietly. "Can you say something  _not_  deriding to my manhood every once in a while?"

"There's a quota I've fallen behind on," she said.

"Is that so?"

"Mhm," she hummed.

"Well," he smirked, his voice low and rumbling, "isn't that interesting? There's one  _I'm_  behind on too."

He leaned over to her, his heat and masculine scent and entire  _being_  drawing closer to her and engulfing her fully, and slipped a burning hand under the hem of her shirt and around her waist.

Lydia's heart stopped in her chest and she flinched at his touch, much too hot and unexpected on her skin. His hand froze there for half a heartbeat before he quietly removed it, sensing he'd done something wrong and hoping with his entire existence he hadn't ruined whatever had grown between them.

"Sorry," they both said at the same time, Lydia looking down shamefully and Cato giving her a perplexed look.

"Sorry?" he asked lightly, smiling a little, and Lydia knew he was trying to make the situation less awkward.

"It's just – I mean you – sorry," she mumbled, turning away as her face began burning up again. "You just – scared me, is all."

He smiled sympathetically. "Lydia," he breathed, touching her jaw gently and guiding her gaze back up to his. "Are you ever going to be comfortable with me touching you?"

She frowned a little despite the caring, desperate look in his soft eyes.

"Yeah," she said, sounding a lot more confident than she felt. "You just scared me."

His fingers lingered on her jaw for a moment longer before falling away.

"If this – if you're uncomfortable," he began, "if you don't like this –"

"No," she sighed. "I just don't – well, you know… after my mother, I haven't ever really…"

"I know," he said gently, smiling to let her know he  _did_  know.

She'd never really known affection. Of any kind, by anyone. And it made him mad, an anger that burned in his chest, that she'd never known hugs, never had her hand held, had been a stranger to a soft touch and a proud smile. Or she could not remember them. She should have been held as a small girl, been embraced and kept close, had her hair brushed and her tears wiped away. A mother's love, a parent's guidance, something everyone needed, but had been stolen from her, snatched away much too soon. It had turned her beautiful heart into something hard, something colder than it ever should have been. And not for the first time, a lance of hatred tore through him at Hrongar, at the man she called  _father._  But he pushed it aside. For her.

"It's alright," he said softly, caressing her arm in an encouraging way. "It's ok. I won't do it again. We can go slower, if you want –"

"No," she said forcefully, surprising him. "I mean – no. It's not alright. I don't  _want_  to be like that. I want –" she stopped, frowning. Did she know what she wanted?

_You._

Cato smiled sharply. "Three years is a long time, you know. Gotta make up for it."

She smiled, her cheeks only turning a little red.

"So," he said casually, sensing he'd rendered her speechless again. "I'll warn you before I pull something like that again. Alright?"

"Sure you will."

"Hey," he said, smiling at the goosebumps he was causing on her arm. "I may be a thief and a liar but I am a man of my word."

"Don't say that," she smiled. "You're neither of those things."

"Really?" he smirked, sensing where this was going. "What am I then?"

"Annoying. And loud."

"Ouch."

"And you smell like a Skeever sometimes."

"A Skeever? Don't I have  _any_  redeeming qualities?"

"Hmm," she mused, heart fluttering at the smile growing on his face, at his fingers burning on her arm. "I  _think_  there was this one time you single-handedly defeated three Forsworn warriors and a Briarheart in unarmed combat without a single injury."

"Did I? Now you're just messing with me."

"Yeah, my memory's a bit fuzzy."

He smiled. "I did get one, you know."

"A what?"

_"_ _Injury,"_  he chided. "Lydia, work to keep up."

She scoffed playfully at him. "Where?" she asked, "I don't see any."

He smiled and moved the short hair back from the left side of his head to reveal his ear, purpled and crusted over in blood but obviously tended after.

Well,  _most_  of his ear.

"Cato!" Lydia gasped, instinctively going to touch the wound but catching herself early. The better part of half an inch had been sliced off the top of his ear, jagged and torn and extremely painful-looking. "What happened?"

He smiled as she pushed his hand away, keeping his hair back herself. "The Briarheart," he mumbled, enjoying the feeling of her hands on his head, of the worried look in her eyes. "Didn't you see?"

_"_ _No,"_  she scolded, frowning as she examined it. "Or else I would have  _known."_  She touched the ear gingerly, frowning as he winced under her.

"Ow. Don't do that."

"Let me look at it next time then. Cato," she sighed, "why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged, pulling from her grasp but failing as she held on tight. "I don't know. It didn't look that bad."

"Look? So you have eyes on the side of your head now?"

"I – ah, yes?"

"Just be glad you don't," she sighed, letting go of his head. "It doesn't look nice."

"What do you mean?" He ruffled his hair back into the unruly mess it always was, scowling at her timidly.

She looked at him, at his frowning face, his scruff that should have been shaved five days ago, the bruise painting his deep cut and his temple violet, the scars and the burns and his crooked, broken nose, all now accompanied by the lopsided look his uneven ears gave him.

"It's just –" she chuckled, unable to keep herself angry with him, and by watching his face brighten as he though the same.

"Just… what?"

She smiled, looking him straight in the eyes she loved so much. "…just  _you."_

"Oh my  _gods!"_  he barked, lunging forward and attacking her ribs and stomach in a ferocious tickle, and smiling himself as she threw her head back and laughed.

Gods, he really loved it when she smiled like that. Freely, as if she had decided to let go of her troubles for only a moment. The setting sun shone golden through her hair and he noted the little crinkles near the corners of her eyes as she laughed.

She was  _beautiful_. And it hit him suddenly, actually taking his breath away as if he'd been punched in the gut. He didn't think that really ever happened.

Joking aside, he wanted to tell her that. Let her know just how much she meant to him, just how beautiful he thought she was both inside and out. He even opened his mouth to say it, yet the words escaped him. And he realised then with a blinding clarity that he,  _he_  himself, was afraid.

Of what?

Of what she would say, maybe, if he blurted that out now. Would she get frightened? Run from him? He had nearly destroyed everything only moments ago, and he would never forget that.

Or maybe it went deeper than that. Maybe, he thought, he was afraid she would leave. Even now, so late in their friendship, so early in…  _whatever_ this was, that would be a crushing blow. She was his best friend, his partner-in-crime, and she had saved his life more times than he could ever hope to count.

Could he ever go back to living a life without her in it?

And he couldn't help himself, despite his earlier promise to her. She was  _beautiful._ She was like a diamond, a magnet, some wild thing you shouldn't touch, but he did just that.

Maybe, he thought, instead of saying it, he could show it.

"What about you, though?" he asked gently as she sobered, touching her neck softly where the barbs of Donre's spiked sword had punctured and left little marks. "Did they hurt you?"

Lydia swallowed, feeling a burning trial across her throat where he touched her, moving his fingertips from wound to tiny wound. It was soft, and gentle, and the unmistakable affection behind it made her shiver under his touch.

"I'm fine," she breathed, equally as soft, and her breath hitched in her throat as his fingers moved to trace along her thin collarbone, slow and purposeful, and brushed across her shoulders, pulling the neck of her shirt down just a little. Goosebumps lifted the hairs on her arms. "Really. Don't worry about me."

"It's kind of hard not to," he mumbled low, running his fingers slowly down her arm, his fingernails trailing lightly over her skin. He came back up again, painfully slow, smiling as he watched Lydia quiver under his touch.

He traced along the line of her neck once more, slowly, evenly, content with just feeling her like this yet yearning for even more. He bit his lip, determined not to reveal the building heat of desire within him. He didn't want to scare her, but  _Gods,_  she was making it difficult.

"Is this ok?" he asked, barely more than a whisper. She nodded stoically, her mind seemingly not quite connected to her body at this instant, or perhaps the other way around. To test the theory out, he brushed his thumb along her collarbone with some pressure, right at the dip where both bones met.

She let out a small, involuntary mewl when he did that, a sort of keening he'd never heard from her before, and the result was conclusive: she was driving him  _mad._  The sound tore an electrifying pulse through him and he groaned, his insides turning to fire.

He knew on the surface that he should stop, that he should go slower like he said, ask her what she wanted. But he simply  _couldn't._  Cato Vitellas was many things: Imperial, thief, rogue, asshole, Dragonborn, hero (sometimes), but deep down he was still just a man, a male of his race. And she was a woman.

He slid his fingers up her smooth neck and stopped to cup her face, brushing his thumb across her soft cheek. And smiling what he hoped was a charming smile, he pulled her closer to him, closing his eyes, brushing his lips softly against hers.

"Cato…" Lydia breathed against him after a moment too soon, placing a hand on his chest to stop him.

His eyes opened again to the sight of the woman in front of him, biting her lip nervously, hair tangled from the wind, her eyes looking anywhere but at him. His stomach churned. Was it possible for her to  _not_  look so damn appealing? Not even once?

"Yes?" he asked quietly, and Lydia could feel his warm breath dance across her cheeks and neck. "Oh," he said, his stomach dropping. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean –"

"No, it's not that. I – I've been thinking… I mean, I've been meaning to ask –" she paused, and he drew back from her, sighing, letting his hand fall from her face. She could be such a tease at times. "When this is over – the Jarl's mission, I mean – what happens then? Will it be like with Aela? Are you going – are  _we_  going to tell anyone…?" she hesitated, glancing his way for a reaction.

"About what?" he asked, working hard to quiet his beating heart, to still the fire in his chest. "About  _us?_ " She nodded, shifting to get more comfortable beside him. "Lydia," he whispered, eyes darting to the mass of pines behind them where Aela sat near the fire. "This isn't really the place…"

"I know."

"Or the time –"

"Yes."

"So can't it wait?" He leaned in closer to her, his face only inches from her, hoping she got the message.

She clenched her jaw and thought a moment, torn. He wasn't helping, either, the way he was tracing random patterns up and down her forearm absentmindedly, his too-warm hands burning her skin. And he was so close he was making it difficult for her to think, his body angled toward her, around her, protectively almost, and she wondered if he knew he was doing that. He smelled good, clean, like the soap he used earlier.

Did he have  _any_  idea the effect he was having on her? She doubted it.

"No," she finally said, not without difficulty. She wanted to know before things got too far, the water too deep to turn back. Well, if she was being honest, before she got her heart broke. Because if anyone could do that, it would be him.

He frowned a little, then sighed after a moment in defeat. "Of course," he said, stopping his tracing and stroking her arm in a comforting way. "Why wouldn't we tell people about us?" He ducked his head sheepishly then. "Ah… well, assuming there  _is_ an Us. There  _– is_  one, right? You didn't just trip and fall into me back at Dragonsreach?"

"You caught me," she smirked, her shy smile sending pulses through his body.

"The cruellest trick you've ever played," he smirked back. "Really, though.  _Us._ It sounds… odd, doesn't it? I mean, well, there's always been us, as in you and me, Housecarl and Thane, travelling together and killing things, but not Us." She watched his smile grow, his bright eyes light up in the growing dark of the night, and she couldn't help but smile back. "It's so… ah. I don't know. Did you think this would ever happen? It's strange, isn't it? It feels good to say it, though, in a way.  _Us._ You know what I mean?"

"You're rambling," she smiled.

"I am," he admitted, and he was simply beaming now. Then something changed, quick as a switch – his eyes darkened, his smile fell, and his warm hand froze on her arm. "But… that's not what you meant, is it? Not telling anyone?"

"I'm just worried about you," she admitted quietly, her heart aching for him. "I know how hard it is now with what people say – how mean they can be… but with  _this…_ "

He sighed, letting go of her arm, the sudden rush of cold causing her to shiver. "Alright. Let me get this out of the way now, before anything else happens. Listen: I don't  _care_ what people say, Lydia. About me, about the Empire. About  _Us._ I never have." He frowned. "Well, maybe I did once, but that was before… well, before a lot of things happened. I mean, sure, the names get old and I guess it bothers me sometimes, but it doesn't stop me from doing what I want."

"You're too stubborn," she smiled sadly, stopping herself from reaching out to him. "You always have been."

" _Exactly._  You out of everyone should know that."

"I do. Unfortunately."

"Thanks," he said dryly. "I feel so loved."

"It's just – I just don't want to make things harder for you," she said.

He cocked his head, thinking, and looked long and hard at her. After a moment he narrowed his eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"For me?" he said, and it wasn't a question. He turned away from her to watch the river, jaw set. "I don't think this is about me."

"Cato," she frowned, "don't bring my father –"

_"Look,"_  he said sharply, turning from the water to face her now, his expression fixed and unyielding. She blinked in its severity. "I know I'm good with words – most of the time – and could probably put a thief out of business but on matters of the heart I'm more…  _forward._  So," he said, straightening up and opening his arms wide again, gesturing to the whole of his body, from his bare feet to the unruly short hair on his head, still damp from the river. "Tell me now – does it matter?"

"I've always had a thing for shorter men."

_"Funny,"_  he smiled weakly. "Let me rephrase that: does it bother you that I'm not a Nord?"

She frowned.  _Not this again._  "No. Of course not, Cato. Why would you even say that?"

"Because I  _know_  how it is," he stressed, lowering his arms and leaning closer. "You say that now, but what happens down the road? When we're walking down the street together? You think people will stop saying those things? Stop staring?" His voice was quavering and she could tell he was trying to keep it under control, trying to hide from her how much this really bothered him – how deeply he had actually considered all this. "When you introduce me as your –  _whatever_  we are, and they look at you like you're mad? Like I put some sort of spell on you?"

He paused and then sighed, running a hand through his wet hair in frustration. The dying light of the autumn sun glinted off the drops of water clinging to it, like little stars in the night. "I know you've seen the looks and heard the names, Lydia, but they were never meant for you. They  _shouldn't_  be for you. I can't ask that of you."

And then it became clear to her. "Is that why you never…?"

He didn't answer her, but by the way he hung his head, the way his shoulders slumped as if he was embarrassed, as if he were  _ashamed_  to be who he was, to be born Imperial and not Nord, gave her all the answers she needed.

"I don't  _care,_  Cato," she said earnestly, echoing him, her features surely reflecting the ache she felt in her heart. He turned to her, bright eyes wide, clearly surprised at her sincerity. "I'm worried about  _you,_  not me. Don't you see?" She grasped onto his arm, near the shoulder, trying to get him to listen, to understand. "Let them say what they want. Let them stare. I told you before:  _it doesn't matter._  Not anymore. Don't you understand?" She frowned again, frustration creasing her brow. "I don't think it has for a long while. I won't let –"

Whatever she would not let happen, whatever she was about to say, he would never know, because Cato grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him then, kissing her the way she kissed him for the first time, with heat and desire and a feeling that nothing else in the world really mattered at that moment but letting the other person know how very much they meant to you.

It took her a moment to catch her breath but when she did, she closed her eyes and kissed him back just the same.

It was slower this time, less frantic and needy than before, but that was ok. Lydia felt his mouth on hers, his lips against her lips, noted the way they moved against her own, how warm and soft they were, how he tilted his head only a little so he fit perfectly against her. She played the participant and the observer both, learning from him, studying him and his ways. She could feel him doing the same.

And then she felt the cool night air as he pulled away much too soon, and she opened her eyes to find him smiling at her, something burning fervently just beneath the surface and clawing its way out.

"You talk too much," he joked, and  _of course_  it was a joke, because only Cato would say something like that.

She growled, surprising even herself, and she dragged him back to her. "Shut up and kiss me."

He obeyed only too willingly.

His hands moved from her shoulders down her arms again, firmer and with more urgency, leaving a wide burning trail as they went. She would never understand how his rough hands could feel so smooth when he touched her like this. Her own hands, awkward and homeless at first, seemed to have a mind of their own and melded into place around his neck, twisting into his short hair again like they did last time.

It was sort of strange, she thought, feeling him caress her arms, her shoulders again. Hadn't she only  _just_  admitted to him she was no good at affection? Particularly the physical kind? And yet here she was, simply unable to stop herself, to pull away from him or let go. It didn't make sense. But then again, nothing was right now. So did it have to?

Like a magnet she gravitated closer to him, crushing the whole of her body alongside him, her breasts pressed against his chest. The pressure and mere thought of it sent a violent shock to the core of her being, a wriggling sensation deep inside her somewhere.

And then, somehow, a thought managed to cross her mind:  _I am kissing Cato. I am kissing my best friend._

Almost at the same time, Cato deepened the kiss and stealthily slid a hand around her waist again, though this time with more urgency, with none of the slow deliberateness of before. She gasped as his hand slipped beneath her shirt, feeling the cool smoothness of her skin, the curve of her hip, the dip at the small of her back.  _Cheeky bugger,_  she thought, though she had to commend his boldness.

His hand roamed dangerously close to her buttocks but never went that far. She would not have protested, though.

Her stomach pitched wildly out of the blue, and her thrashing heart rose into her throat. She had thought about this for so long, had dreamed about it, imagined it at night, but never dared to hope. Yet here she was. Here  _he_  was. She could not remember being happier. They stood upon the precipice, upon the edge of a sword teetering over the abyss, in front of two entire races who opposed and would no doubt throw up enormous barriers onto their perilous path, and yet she just  _knew_  there was no other place she'd rather be. She smiled into the kiss.

She hadn't realised she needed the air, or maybe it was just the whole experience, but she pulled away from him to simply breathe, her mind alight with sensation and vibrant explosions of feeling and pure, unaltered  _need._  She was surprised at the rawness of it all, the innocence and substance. It was right and wrong, light and dark, a swirling mixture of everything good and bad in the world, and it was  _perfect._

But he would not allow the pause. With a small, impatient moan, he moved to kiss her along the jaw, over and over, breathing in her cold Nordic skin, her feminine scent, so unlike anything he'd ever experienced and yet like nothing he could ever live without.

Cato kissed her on the corners of her mouth, on her chin, along her jaw, feeling her, breathing her in, learning her in this whole new way. He'd never known she had a scar halfway along her jaw, but he could feel it there, under his lips. It was only little, and through the mounting fog of desire he found himself wondering where she got it from.

"Your skin…" he grumbled, the sound rumbling deep inside and reverberating in Lydia's chest. He rubbed his face against hers, his short scruff grazing her cheek. "Fuckin'… soft."

He dared to roam a little farther, and whether by pure luck or male intuition he kissed her at the spot under her ear where her jaw met her neck. She gasped, breath hitching in her throat as her nerves tore fire and lightning through her body. She'd never known anything to feel so  _good_. Why there? Cato paused, only for a heartbeat, before he smiled against her skin.

Her stomach churned once more, the heat building up inside her, and she simply melted against him as he kissed that spot again. And again.

_"_ _Cato…"_

And then she could no longer hold herself upright and collapsed into him, her legs and arms and mind turned to jelly. He laughed into her shoulder as he lowered her, a bit awkwardly with her dead weight, into the soft grasses below.

He might have said something then, maybe asked if this was alright, but she could not remember. And he was leaning over her, kissing her again, his head and unruly hair framed by the night sky above, his bright eyes simply burning with longing and care. The weight of him on top of her, despite most of it dissipated by his arms on either side of her body, felt good and warm and safe.

She could only lay her head in the grass as he did that, as he kissed her jaw, her neck, that spot he had found. His hand feeling her midriff, moving across her stomach and hips in a slow, intimate way. His thumb brushed over her navel once, twice, learning it, before moving on.

Smelling his clean shirt and sun-darkened skin and that something she couldn't quite place that could only be described as  _Cato,_  a sort of smell like leather mixed with simple  _male._  She could feel his beating heart against her breast and the muscles moving beneath. Miraculously, she managed to lift a hand from the grass to caress his lean shoulder, the back of his neck, his strong arm, his sloping back.

_His,_  she thought.  _Cato's. And now mine._

The hand on her waist moved up her side, much too warm and sending electrical pulses through her. She gasped, his hand touching some sensitive or ticklish spot there, and arced herself involuntarily up into him. She felt rather than heard him groan in response, a feral sort of moan that called to something primal deep inside her own body.

A sharp nip of teeth on her neck surprised her, sobered her a little. A quick flick of a tongue soothed the sting but she was certain it would bruise. Given where it was on her neck, an area not easily covered, she was sure it had been done on purpose, or partly so. Still, she could not muster the indignation to care. She rather liked the idea of being claimed by a man, by Cato in such a primitive way. It sent a whole new wave of desire coursing madly through her veins.

_"_ _Fuck,"_  he grumbled almost inaudibly, and then with a reluctant moan he stopped kissing her, and collapsed beside her in the grass, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close to him for a long while.

They lay there together in the swaying grass, staring at all the stars above and listening to the sounds of the late autumn frogs, the nightingale in some nearby tree, the laboured, not-quite-satisfied breathing of the two people by the river.

Her desire ebbed away from her, bleeding out from her slowly, the fire within not quite gone but reduced now to a small flicker.

She spotted a constellation Cato had once pointed out to her, twinkling fiercely in a night with no moons: the Thief, the sign he had been born under. The stars were bent in the sky, near the periphery of the massive globe above, not quite in the height of their own month.

Cato waited until his breathing evened out before he spoke.

"I've waited too long to hold you like this, you know," he breathed, voice low and husky and sending knots twisting somewhere deep inside her. "Far too long."

She smiled and spoke into his shoulder, voice muffled. "Well, at least you got the kiss on the beach you wanted."

"Yeah," he said, and she could almost feel him smirking up at the stars. "Guess I did."

She could have lay there forever with him, held close to him, feeling his chest rise and fall, his heart beneath her hand. She didn't want him to let her go, to stop absentmindedly massaging her arm so lightly in such a way that no one ever had before and, if she had her way, no one ever would again.

She moved a hand from his chest and touched the mark on her neck lightly, absentmindedly, feeling the swell of where there would no doubt show a small bruise in the morning.

"Ah… sorry," he said, embarrassment colouring his tone, making her smile a little. "In the moment, I guess."

"It's alright," she assured him, placing her hand back on his chest. "I am yours."

"Mine," he smirked, playing with the word a little, and she could almost feel his chest swelling as he said that. "I think I like calling you that."

"I think I like hearing you say it."

He smiled.

* * *

**A/N: Yay! Stuff! Romancy stuff! Was it decent? I hope so.**

**Anyways, hope you enjoyed!**


	14. The One Where Cato Dies

**A/N: Hola friends! I come bearing gifts of a new chapter! Yay! Here you go!**

**Or maybe not so yay... it's kinda sad... with a little bit fluff...**

**This chapter was inspired by my friend SilentPony, who, as I mentioned before, was kind enough to PM me some story and plot ideas. Hope this does you justice, and immense thanks once again!**

**Also, a wyrm is a dragon.**

**Enjoy, and thanks a trillion for all your amazing support!**

* * *

Lydia was jerked out of sleep by the dull sound of wet canvas moving somewhere deep within her unconscious mind, the result of a lifetime of restless nights and the unending need to be alert and ready for danger. She sat up, blinking in the near-dark, the flickering fire casting odd shapes and shadows about the grimy tent walls.

Cato smiled a little sheepishly at her from the entrance to her tent, his shining eyes rimmed with an exhaustion that never truly seemed to leave him – at least, not the last year or so. But his posture was relaxed and the smile was genuine and Lydia found her heart beating for a reason altogether different than the prospect of a night ambush.

"Sorry," he whispered, flashing her a wider smile as he lifted the canvas flap a little higher. "Didn't mean to frighten you."

Lydia groaned something incoherent as she relaxed and eased her white-knuckled grip on the furs around her. Cato chuckled a little, the firelight behind him dancing in his eyes and playing on his features. His teeth shone white in the dark, perfect and almost sparkling except for a dark spot near the back, void of anything but space and the story behind it.

"What do you want?" she grumbled, rubbing at her eyes.

Cato raised his eyebrows. "Good morning to you as well."

"Sorry," she sighed, swallowing thickly with thirst. "You just scared me."

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

"Shouldn't you be on guard?"

"Probably."

He moved into the tent almost soundlessly, still crouched low as he let the dew-studded canvas flap fall back down to shut out the fire and the world beyond.

"What are you doing?" Lydia asked as he made his way over to her, his body a vague shape moving silently in the dark.

"Nothing."

"Cato –"

_"_ _Shhh,"_  he whispered as he slipped under the furs beside her, pulling them up past his shoulders. "What does it look like? I'm cuddling you."

He slid a warm hand around her waist and pulled her closer to him. She relented and let herself be eased back down into the furs, into the warmth and the closeness and the promise of rest.

"Why?" she asked, inhaling sharply as he pulled her again and felt his too-warm body against her whole side, pressed so close, his arm across her stomach a rope of fire.

"Did you just ask why?" he mumbled into her shoulder, the sound muffled by her sleeping shirt and the warm brown furs surrounding them.

"I did, yes."

"Because it's cold out there and warm in here and – and I just want to be with you."

He said it so quietly she wasn't sure he'd said it at all.

She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out.

She turned on her side, and he pulled her even closer against him. For a long while she lay there, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against her back, their breaths in unison, his warm skin on hers. It was… nice, being held like that. She felt safe and loved and warm, so different from what either of them knew, what neither of their lifestyles could afford them. Except here, maybe, and together.

"Lydia," he breathed, warm breath ghosting against the back of her neck.

She shivered. "Yeah?"

"I'm going to tell you something I've only told a few people before."

"Okay."

"And if you tell anyone, I will murder you."

"Alright."

"I'm serious. I will call down a dragon and make him eat you."

_"_ _Okay,_  Cato, I get it. What is it?"

He hesitated for a moment, and Lydia could feel him frown into her shoulder.

"I don't like sleeping alone," he whispered.

"Oh."

Lydia could hear the crickets singing in the tall grasses by the riverbank. They sang of many things, if one knew the voices of crickets. Of water, and of air, and of that extraordinary moment right when the stars begin to die but the sun has yet to rise. But mostly they sang of love, and of life, and of that pesky thing called Death that tends to get in the way of both.

"You know," he said, "I used to think the worst thing in life was to be alone. Live alone, die alone. Well, it's not."

"No?"

"No."

"What is it, then?"

"The worst thing in life is to be surrounded by people who make you feel alone."

Lydia smiled sadly. "You trying to tell me something?"

She could feel him smile into her shoulder.

"Quite the opposite, my dear. These past few years here – in Skyrim, I mean – and, well, there's the Jarl's Court, and the Companions, and Erik and Marcurio and Mjoll and Faendal, but…and you know…" He sighed, not quite satisfied with that explanation.

He shrugged, the movement jerking her entire body. "It's nice to finally not feel alone."

The crickets sang some more. The fire crackled outside, and the mist rose off the river they'd kissed by earlier. And the stars were starting to die, and the sun would be up soon.

"Also, I'm the Dragonborn, and I can do whatever I want."

She smiled.

* * *

They tracked the cultists to a small ruined temple on the far western border of Skyrim, in the rugged juniper foothills of the Reach, not a day's walk north of Markarth.

Lydia had been nervous they'd taken Danica into the neighbouring province of High Rock or, worse yet, just killed her on the road. Why had they bothered to take her so far?

She'd asked the Companion that and the icy glare was enough to make her reconsider, once again, the Jarl's sanity.

They left the warmer plains and had scaled the cold jagged mountainside for days longer than they should have, picking their way across cliffs and crags and the tangled roots of trees clinging to the stone. Cato and Lydia silently, monotonously, followed the Huntress as she bent here and there, putting her ear to the ground, looking for boot scuffs on the rocks or broken pine needles or anything that would reveal which dark hole the cultists might have slithered into.

And then, one morning, as her travelling companions stirred from sleep, Lydia spotted the cavern entrance in the soft cold light of the grey dawn. She'd almost missed it in the near-dark, and she couldn't remember being happier during the entire weeklong excursion. The hard part was over, in her mind. Now it was just a matter of bashing some heads and taking the priestess back to Whiterun.

"There's something….  _wrong,_ " Cato said with disgust, staring into the dark mouth of the cave.

"You're right," Lydia agreed, taking a step back from the blackness to stand beside him. "It smells  _foul._  Like something died in there."

"Indeed," Aela said, peering into the dark as well. Her cold eyes scanned the pine needles and thin layer of dirt near the mouth of the cavern. They crossed over the crude rockwall drawings of rats and worms and insects Lydia couldn't place, over the painted tribal skulls adorned with bits of bone and hair skewered on pikes, silently guarding the entrance to the ancient cavern. "And old, too. There's some old magic in this place."

"Forsworn?"

"Perhaps."

"It looks abandoned, though."

"Maybe. They don't come north of the city much. It could be an outpost."

"Right."

An uncomfortable silence settled upon them, as chill as the morning dew. No one had mentioned what happened at the Forsworn settlement, not since they left. Not since that night Cato had told Lydia he would do anything to save the woman who, for reasons known only to the gods, despised him. Because she was a Companion.

_Hm. Some companion._

Even though what transpired was kept silent, maybe out of fear or respect or something else, Lydia would never forget what happened, how they came within a hair's breadth of death. It was as bold and as clear as the newly missing half-inch off Cato's ear she had to look at every time they spoke. A token of the peril, a reminder of their mortality, and it would be there for the rest of his life.

Lydia frowned. "I sincerely hope this isn't where they took her."

"Seriously, though, Lydia," Cato frowned, peering at the skulls and blood-red paintings. "Could you have found a creepier place?"

"Hey, at least I found it."

"Ah, that's  _vile!_ " he coughed into his sleeve. "Can you smell that? How could anyone go in there?" He took a few steps back, his face twisted in disgust. "No. They wouldn't go in there. They'd die for lack of air."

"A good place to hide a kidnapped victim," Lydia offered, then shrugged at the incredulous look Cato threw her way. "What?"

"I  _am_  loath to disappoint, you know, but I believe the Housecarl here is correct." Aela bent down on one knee and took a few pine needles between her fingers. "It's not abandoned. Someone passed through not three days ago. And they went inside."

"How do you know?"

She stood up and brushed herself off. "I am not called  _the Huntress_  for nothing, you know. I have my uses, as redundant as you deem them."

"Oh, right. Tracking," he mumbled. "Almost forgot. You only mention it  _every time you speak."_

"Look, Imperial," Aela seethed. "I want to be on this mission with  _you_  as much as you do with  _me._  Neither of us want to be here, and neither of us had a choice. I'm here as your tracker and guide, here to find Danica. Nothing more. Not as your friend, not as your slave." Lydia rather thought the Huntress eyed her then.

"Is this your attempt at being civil?"

"I came to track the cultists down and I have."

"Right," he lauded mockingly. "To the cave that  _Lydia_  found."

"And who got you this far? Who dragged your worthless ass halfway across Skyrim right to this spot? Not your slave. Not you.  _Me._ " She crossed her arms. "I've held up my end of the bargain."

"Leave, then," Cato said. "Trust me, no one will be upset."

"I can't. The Jarl entrusted us to bring back the priestess.  _Us,_ Imperial. I know you can't understand the concept of loyalty or accomplishment, but I do. I'll be damned if I've travelled this far with  _you_  of all people for you to bask in the Jarl's praise yourself."

"Here for personal glory, then? Should have known."

"And what are you here for?" she seethed, shouldering her pack. "To prove to the Jarl you're  _not_  a worthless pawn of the Empire?  _Ha!"_  she snorted, "good luck with  _that."_

"Well, it certainly wasn't for your horrible jokes."

"Cato," Lydia warned, frowning at him.

"What?"

"Stop."

"I'm not –"

"Please."

"Seriously?"

The glare she gave him was more than any verbal answer she could have given.

"Fine," he huffed, clearly a little annoyed. "Fine. Whatever you say."

"Enough of this," Aela bit. "We've dawdled enough. It is time to get our healer back."

The three of them stood at the mouth of the cavern for a long moment, hesitating. Every inch, every fibre of Lydia's being warned her against going inside. It told her to run from the cave, get as far away as she possibly could.

But she couldn't, could she? They had a priestess and a healer to save. So many lives depended on them bringing her back home.

"Right, then," she said with a grimace, steeling herself for the unpleasantness that no doubt awaited them. Yet she didn't move.

"Yeah. Let's go," Cato agreed.

And he didn't move. For a long moment.

"Why aren't you moving?" Aela hissed.

"Me? What about you? Your legs don't look broken to me."

_"_ _Cato,"_ Lydia warned again, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, the mighty Dragonborn.  _Ever_  the charming hero."

"Got that right."

"Straight out of legend, you are."

" _Damn_  straight."

"Are you upset, Imperial? Seems as though I've uncovered a weak spot of yours – a childhood fear of the dark, perhaps. Or is it spiders?"

"Oh, I'm not upset at all. In all likelihood, you'll probably be killed by the monster spiders inside. That, or  _I_  will be, and then I'll be dead and I won't have to listen to you talk any more. It's a win-win, really."

"Are you always a smartass?"

"No. Sometimes I'm asleep."

_"_ _Excellent."_

"That's what I'm here for – to deliver unpleasant news and witty one-liners."

"Really? I thought you were here to use as a meat-shield against dragons."

"Sorry. I've pushed Meat-Shielding back to a week from Tirdas. I'll have to pen you in for that."

Aela snorted and ignored him. Lydia gave him a warning glare, though not wholly condemning. He shrugged.

Then he stepped inside.

The stench of rot magnified tenfold and hit him like a brick. No, more like a forty-tonne dragon crashing into a building, which was something he had in fact witnessed before. It smelled sick, putrid even, and as his companions stepped in to follow him, he could tell they sensed something wrong about the place as well.

"This is – I've never –" Cato covered his face with his arm, shaking his head.

"I know," Lydia agreed. She squinted in the darkness, hovering on the edge of the safe, grey light of dawn behind her and the uncertain, hostile gloom before her. "Should we get a light?"

"That would be most unwise," Aela said bitterly, elbowing her out of the way.

Lydia frowned. "Why –"

"Lydia," Cato said evenly, touching her arm lightly. "Don't look down."

She gave him a curious look before her eyes darted down to the ground.

Bones. Bones and death. Bones with strips of black rotting flesh littered the cavern floor, creating a damp, slick carpet of decay. There were deer and wolf and sabre-cat parts, clinging fur, oily gristle, glossy, milky eyes. Split heads and gruesomely butchered carcasses. Foul creatures, some unseen things crawled over them, hissing and coiling in the filth at the presence of the travellers. A human skull, its jaw hinged at an odd angle and wisps of wiry hair clinging to its scalp, stared at Lydia with hollow, sunken eyes.

She could barely see them in the shadow, but deep in her heart she knew they were there.

She covered her mouth in silent revulsion, cursing herself for looking down. Her stomach lurched and her world reeled for a moment. It was as if they'd walked into Oblivion itself.

She put a hand against the cavern wall to steady herself, but her fingers squelched in the slick mould that covered the stone in sinewy tendrils. She gasped, vehemently wiping the corruption on her metal breastplate. Her fingers were stained black.

"What is this foul place?" Cato growled, pulling Lydia from the wall closer to him. He took her black hand and examined it, a frown deepening on his face.

"I do not know." The Huntress had stopped now, gazing around the cavern some distance away. "Some twisted plane of Oblivion, perhaps."

He shook his head, apparently deeming Lydia's hand uncorrupted and letting it go. She flexed her fingers, staring at it. A black, oily film stained her fingers, the residue slick and almost tingling her hand in an unpleasant way, a numbing way.

"This isn't right," he whispered, taking a step toward the Companion. "They can't be in here. You're wrong. Something must have – must have eaten them, or corrupted them, or whatever happened. Their bones are here with the rest."

"No," Aela said, peering around at the decay and the dark. "They are here."

"How do you know?" he accused, voice tinged with panic.

She turned around to him at last, looking him in the eye. "Stop for a moment, you fool. Breathe. Do you smell that?"

Cato sniffed at the air reluctantly. "No," he said, glaring at her.

"Exactly."

Lydia sniffed the air as well. It was dank and heavy and threatened to smother them, but there was something else, too.

"It doesn't smell."

"Exactly," Aela repeated. "You sure the Housecarl here isn't the one from your beloved Empire?"

Cato glared at her but chose to ignore that. "So you're saying –"

"What I'm  _saying_  is that at the end of this tunnel lies something much less foul."

Cato's glare softened. "Danica."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a bit of fresh air, but that isn't a completely idiotic response, either."

Cato smiled a little, and despite the horror that surrounded them, it lit up the darkness.

"Are you complimenting me, Aela?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed. "You'd love that, wouldn't you?"

"It sounded like a compliment."

"I will show you the sound of my fist hitting Imperial flesh if you continue this."

"Noted," he smiled.

She gave him one last icy glare, daring him to say anything else, before turning her back and stalking away into the darkness, her Nordic armour echoing off the blackened walls as she walked.

"Well," Cato sighed, turning to face Lydia. "We should probably follow her, then. Don't want her to take a wrong turn and end up getting lost down here."

"I wouldn't mind it."

He smiled. "I'd never hear the end of it."

He looked to her and, despite the creeping dark and the foulness that surrounded them, his eyes still glinted brightly like they always did, his roguish smile making him more handsome than was probably legally allowed. He took her blackened hand in his, oblivious to the corruption or not caring anyways, and gave it an encouraging squeeze.

She smiled back, warmed a little, but it faltered. "I don't like caves, you know," she said after a moment, glancing around the place but refusing to look down again. "You almost died in one."

His smile turned sad and he cupped her cheek with his callused hand. "But you saved me," he said, then he leaned in and kissed her there, in the dark and with only the skulls as witness. It was slow and it was sweet and Lydia could hear her heartbeat echo in the silence and, if only for a moment, he made her forget where she was.

"Stop," Aela whispered, putting a hand out to stop them. She crouched low to the ground, pressed against the slick black wall, and motioned for them to do the same.

"What is it?" Cato asked. Lydia's heart began to thump uneasily. "Do you hear something?"

"Voices," she said after a moment. "Ahead, in the dark. Listen."

They did, but all Lydia could hear was the wild pounding of her own heart and the shallow breaths of her companions in the utter stillness of the cavern.

Then, like unto a wisp of cloud, she heard the voices carry through the dank air, low at first, barely more than a whisper. They grew slowly, a low, cyclical sound that morphed into a mumbling monotony of voices.

"Is that…  _chanting?_ " Cato whispered.

"What does it sound like?" Aela said sharply.

Cato gave her a hard glare. "I don't know. Maybe that's why I was asking."

"Maybe you should not ask such foolish questions."

"That wasn't a foolish question. ' _Why can't Aela keep the company of men for more than a single night?'_ is a foolish question." He paused, smiling at her narrowed eyes. "It's because you're a bitch."

"What did you just call me?" she growled, looking just about ready to lunge at his throat. He must have known it too because he shuffled a few quick steps back to put Lydia between them.

"Enough," Lydia demanded, putting a restraining hand on Aela's chest plate. The woman's icy eyes almost made her recoil. "Please, not now. We are too close to the end." Aela's shadowy glare nearly made her falter but she did not back down. "You can kill each other later," she added, smiling a little.

"I look forward to it," Aela seethed, swatting Lydia's hand away from her chest plate.

Lydia glared at Cato and he shrugged unapologetically.

"Let's go then," he said, slinking low to the ground past Lydia. "I'll take front. You two, follow close."

"I do not mind," Aela said, glaring at Cato as he crouched past her. "You make for a decent arrow shield."

He ignored that and led them down the tunnel, staying low and close to the wall. Lydia's legs ached from where her iron armour dug into the skin at the back of her knees and near her hips. It was meant to take a decent blow from a warhammer, not for slinking around in caves like this. But so close to their objective, she could afford to grin and bear it. Lydia could tell Aela's Nordic armour was wearing her down as well, though the woman would never admit to something like that.

Cato seemed fine, however. His leathers were well-suited for flexibility and silent moving. He tried not to show it, but Lydia could tell he was growing impatient at their tedious speed and the loud shuffling their armour made as it scraped together.

The voices grew as well, and she could discern a single louder, piercing voice echoing through the dark in between bouts of monotonous chanting.

She knew they were close when the rocky floor leveled out and the stone walls grew smooth, mostly free of the mouldy corruption. The air was not as dank here, as well, cooler and fresher and smelling a lot more like incense, maybe, and a lot less like rot and filth, but the clearest evidence they were nearing their mark was that the voice became discernable.

"…and stand, now, brothers, in the dark and yet the light! Let us worship Him, He who keeps natural order, who shoulders the burden of the dead!" The voice was smooth, lilting, charismatic. "He is the pus in the wound, the maggot in dying flesh. Oh, proper ones curl their noses, but it's pus that drinks foul humours and restores the blood. We worship Peryite, yes, because sometimes the world can only be cleansed by disease."

_Great,_  Lydia thought to herself as they inched closer to the greenish pool of light slicing round the bend ahead.  _Another group of fanatics._  She had heard enough from passionate zealots the past week to last her twelve lifetimes.

"Peryite?" Cato mouthed to them, confusing drawn on his face in the shadows.

"Daedric Prince of disease," Aela whispered up to him. "All things foul. I am surprised you have never heard of him."

Cato shot her a sharp look, but continued on ahead.

"Lord of Pestilence, Plague, and Pandemic," the characteristic voice continued, almost silky in its deliverance. "Peryite, the Taskmaster, Keeper of Order and Ruler of The Pits, hear us now – we are meant to stand ready, awaiting your command to cover the world with your Blessing!"

_"_ _Erysívi̱, Aíma, Dráko̱n!"_  a sea of voices chanted in unison, the alien words eerily beautiful despite the dark and the death on the walls.

Perhaps if Cato had naught experience with the Forsworn he might have been more curious, asked more questions, maybe. But as it was, he seemed to accept the Peryite radicals for what they were – radicals, and nothing more. Or maybe it was  _because_ of the Forsworn he said very little. Maybe he, too, grew tired of religious fanatics. Maybe he simply wished, as Lydia did, for this torturous Jarl's errand to be through.

As it was, the three companions were silent as they reached the pool of green light. Cato motioned for Lydia and Aela to stay as he crept a few steps to peer around the corner slowly, making sure he did not touch the walls, before he retreated. There was a sour look on his face.

"It's bad," he whispered, voice almost drowned out by the monotonous chanting. "They've got her."

"Danica?" Aela asked, interest piqued.

"No," Cato frowned. "Mara herself.  _Of course_  it's Danica, you –"

"Those that can heal can harm," the silky voice went on, "and those that can cure can kill. Such has it ever been."

_"_ _Erysívi̱, Aíma, Dráko̱n!"_

"Look," Cato whispered, beckoning them toward the greenish light.

"The wound is the place where light enters you; and death is the place where life is reborn. Such has it ever been."

_"_ _Erysívi̱, Aíma, Dráko̱n!"_

Lydia inched forward past Cato, holding her breath, and peered round the bend.

Her stomach churned deep within her.

For in the low vaulted, ancient pillared alcove below, bathed in washed-out greenish light and surrounded by men in black robes, Lydia saw Danica.

The temple these fanatics had chosen was crumbling and dank, little more than some forgotten ruin, yet up a few steps near the far side of the chamber there stood towering over all an enormous, beautifully-carved slim, wiry wyrm. Smooth despite the years, a testament to its craftsmanship, it leaned back on its haunches, forearms curved into wicked claws that gripped a massive stone dais, and it had a mesh of webbing lining its spine from the lean neck down to the bony ribcage. Its skeletal wings spread out behind it ominously, its toothy grin watching the charismatic leader below with malign indifference.

And there, simply shivering in pure fear in the shadow of the beast, was Danica. She was standing bound and gagged against the vertical stone dais, white dress torn and dirty, terror casting about in her eyes. The wyrm's claws curled around the dais, sharp and bony and sending a message to all – none escape Peryite's clutches when he has you. None can escape death.

"Healing and cures are for the  _weak,"_  the leader spat, black robes swishing as he paced across the steps in front of Danica. He had a small bone dagger in his hands, twirling it absentmindedly, and the pale green light from the magical torches cast a ghostly pall on his bald head and pasty skin. "For the weak, and not the strong. Do you know what makes one strong, brothers?"

Silence. Even the torches made no sound.

_"_ _Suffering._  Pain and toil. Enduring. Only those who have known hurt, who have embraced the discomfort of agony and the sting of the bruise can rise above. And Lord Peryite knows this. And that is why he has chosen us, his Afflicted. For we have come through the fire and have  _endured!"_

There was a clamour of agreement, a cacophony of applause, and Danica's eyes widened in deepening fear. The tired circles round her eyes made her look skeletal, like a ghost. The bald man held up the hand with the dagger to silence them.

"We have much to thank our master for," he said. "Much. And that is why, brothers, we give unto Him this gift of healing, this gift of clean and pure and  _weakness_ , so that He may bless us and set this right." He took a couple of quick steps up close to Danica and pointed an accusing finger at her. "Long has this woman called herself healer, named herself Priestess of Kynareth, a saviour unto men. But no longer!" he bellowed. "She is a champion of the weak, and allows their impure souls to linger on in this world, their weak bodies permitted to bring forth weaker offspring. The world is being polluted, my brothers, and only by contagion, by affliction and disease, can the true men be brought forth. We must cull the weak to restore the natural order of things. Such has it ever been."

_"_ _Erysívi̱, Aíma, Dráko̱n!"_

"Let the poison enter her blood," he said, lifting the jagged dagger high. "Let it burn and boil and corrupt, and may her clean skin be made cleaner, her pure soul made purer, and let the dagger bite deep."

"They're going to sacrifice her," Lydia breathed, not quite sure she'd even said it. "The dagger –"

"Alright, I've heard enough," Cato growled, pulling back from the light. "You two, come here."

Lydia obeyed, shaking her head at the insanity.

"This is madness!" Aela hissed, huddling closer to them. "Absolute insanity!" And for once, Lydia had to agree. "They're going to kill her! Murder her!"

"I know," Cato said.

"The dagger – and the poison - but why? What are they doing? What could they possibly hope to gain from that?"

"I'm not sure," he began, expression growing dark. He glanced back behind him, back to the greenish light, the wyrm statue, the bald man holding the bone dagger. To Danica, tied to the altar, quivering in fright. "They believe their god will bless them if they kill her."

"But he won't!" she stressed, her voice beginning to rise with hysteria. "He's – he's  _evil,_  Peryite! He cares not for his followers! He deals with disease and death!  _Why_  would he have an interest in the living?"

"I can't answer that," Cato said, "but if I know one thing, it's this: men can justify anything and do the worst wrongs in the name of what they believe is right."

Lydia stared at him then, at his dark skin made darker by the shadows of this place, and she wondered what he'd been through to come to that conclusion. Would she ever know? Would he ever tell her?

"Aela, calm down," he said, putting a hand on the agitated woman's arm in a comforting way.

_"_ _Don't touch me,"_  she hissed, hurling him a severe frown. "I don't need comfort or pity from  _you._  We need to save the healer, get Danica out of here  _right now!_  We need to –"

"Aela," Cato said, "I –"

"Let's go," she growled, "Right now! Let's rush them, flush them right out, use the element of surprise –"

"Aela," Cato said again, "we can't. We're outnumbered –"

"Yes we can!" she snarled, starting to slide out her Skyforge sword, and it hissed a little in its scabbard. "Danica's –"

_"_ _Listen to me!"_  His voice ripped from his throat in such a feral, demanding way that Aela froze with her hand on the hilt, eyes wide and unblinking in surprise. Lydia had never heard him say anything quite like that before.

"Listen," he repeated after a moment, much softer than before. "We can't just rush in there. Look." He nodded over his shoulder. "We're outnumbered five to one,  _at least._ We don't know the layout of this place. And we're not spread out enough – this isn't a good spot. Even with all our, ah… combined  _skills,_  I'm still not liking those odds. So here's what we're going to do," he continued, pulling his beautiful Orcish bow from his back, the fire enchantment pulsing a shimmering red through the feathered orichalcum. "You two wait here. I'll go on ahead, make my way up through the shadows to the left. Once I'm about halfway, near that second pillar, Lydia, you go right, move to that outcrop. And Aela, you move up to the first pillar there. See it? I'll get near the dais and pick off the bald guy with my bow, get the upper hand. Hopefully that'll surprise them long enough for you two to come in from the side and the back, and it'll get the danger away from Danica first. Kill two birds with one stone. Or something like that."

"Alright," Lydia said, swallowing, the prospect of battle pumping blood through her veins, making her heart pound in her ears. It was almost singing to her. She knew Aela could feel it too.

"Aela?" Cato asked, eyeing her a bit warily.

"Hn," she grunted, her eyes glued to Danica behind him.

"Alright," he sighed, pulling a silvery glass arrow from his quiver. "Guess that'll do."

"Cato…" Lydia whispered, grabbing his arm suddenly before he turned.

"Yeah?"

She hesitated. "Just – be careful," she muttered, worry making her voice quiver a little.

He smiled a roguish sort of smile, one that made the darkness around them a little less  _dark._

"Thanks," he whispered back, the greenish light glinting in his bright eyes. "And you as well."

And then he left, his lithe form disappearing into the shadows.

"Peryite, Lord Dragon of Disease, hear us now!" The bald man thundered in his smooth, enchanting voice, raising the bone dagger, and the Afflicted in black robes began a murmuring chant, utterly beautiful and captivating, a hymn hinting at something good and pure, yet with an ever-present undertone of warning, of notice, of something not quite…  _natural._  Lydia could feel it in her bones. It was almost as though the beat of her heart was too slow, maybe, or too fast, but just out of tune with the song they sang.

_"_ _The memory of answers torn from fate,_

_The destruction of all who cannot wait."_

"What are they singing about?" Aela asked.

"I don't know."

_"_ _At dusk and dawn the Rose Queen rules_

_While thieves of night still own the dark._

_Green dragon's breath pollutes cloud and pool_

_As silent spider spins webs that mark."_

The bald man in the black robes began walking up the few steps separating the Afflicted and the dais Danica was bound to, and her eyes grew ever wider in fear.

"They're – they're going to do it!" Aela hissed, moving as if to get there. "They're going to kill her now!"

"Not yet!" Lydia said, grabbing hold of the woman's pauldrons. "He's not there yet!"

_Cato, where are you?_

_"_ _The broken oath and the traitor's plot,_

_The huntsman's horn and the sharpened spear_

_Make wishes pacts that come to naught_

_When madness claims those who would appear."_

"Look! He's going! He's almost there! The dagger –"

_"_ _Wait!"_  Lydia spat, her fingers aching on the folds of the armour as Aela tried to rip away, get away. "We have to wait! He knows what he's doing!"

_"_ _No he doesn't!"_  Aela snarled, whirling around to face Lydia. "He's going to get her killed!"

_Cato, hurry up!_

The bald man was stood in front of Danica now, the bone dagger clutched tightly in his pallid hand.

_"_ _Life stands death upon its head_

_As sweet lust joins in pools of blood."_

"Let go of me!" Aela roared, yanking herself out of Lydia's grasp. She hissed as the edges of the armour sliced through her fingers, and she recoiled from the woman.

"Stop!"

_Cato! Please!_

_"_ _Escape the curse with no tears to shed_

_As nightmares arrive all in a flood."_

"Aela! Wait!" But she was moving, moving, moving away from her, and she shouldn't be, because they had to wait for Cato, and move into position, and she  _wasn't listening!_

Lydia's eyes darted wildly round the ruins, deep into the shadows for any sign of Cato, and at the bone dagger glinting dully in the pale green light. Poised above Danica, the black poison on the blade in stark contrast to the white of the bone it was carved from.

"No!" Aela hissed, moving, moving away from her.

_"_ _Listen to me!"_

_"_ _By all we know but to be true,_

_This I now say unto you:_

_Disease and plague are no end of life_

_When mastered by the Harvester of Strife."_

_"_ _FOR SKYRIM!"_

Aela vaulted from the shadows and hurled herself into the misty green light, into the startled throng of black robes and pale, sickly skin of the Afflicted, and in that second, Lydia had never been more enraged, more thoroughly sickened with anger than she had been right then. An electrifying instant of silence occurred between Aela's warcry and the first sound of steel through flesh as the head of the nearest Afflicted was swiftly removed from the shoulders.

And then Lydia had no choice, really, to leap in after her, to throw herself into the maddening haze of fury fed by battle and necessity, and so she did.

These men were not fighters, that was certain, but they had at least some knowledge of how to swing a sword, how to shoot an arrow mildly on course. But that didn't matter, really, because they were so outnumbered. Much more so than any battle in Lydia's living memory.

But a lot of them had magic. They used it clumsily as they pushed and shoved and tried to get a foothold in the mass panic that was trampling some underfoot, but still Lydia had to shake off a couple of ice spells hurled her way.

She stuck her axe into the thick neck of a bearded Nord, and then kicked away a scrawny Argonian so forcefully she could almost feel his ribs cracking underfoot. Aela cut her way through the men right beside her, and they fought for what was maybe a moment or a lifetime back to back, attempting to stem the tide. Lydia had more than a humble desire to turn round and put her blade through the woman, but necessity demanded they work together. For now, at least.

A pulse of energy hit her from behind, only a weak one, but she stumbled to one knee, struggling to keep her balance.

And then the most terrifying thing happened.

_"_ _Lydia! Help!"_

Cato's voice rose high above the screams and the howls and the crunching sound of battle and bones and the rusty smell of steel and blood and the cloying smell of black corruption and acrid magic. She scanned frantically around for him, eyes darting between the robes and the blinding colours of magic, and she saw him there in the centre of the horde, under the sharp gaze of the stone wyrm, and she felt her heart drop through the floor.

He was simply surrounded by the Afflicted, straining against everything he had to keep them at bay. He must have dropped his bow, as his black-as-night ebony sword was raised, thrusting and slicing and blocking and  _fighting_ for his life.

Lydia tried to yell to him, to tell him she was coming, but nothing more than a strangled cry managed to pass her lips, and she had to cut through the neck of a boil-covered Redguard and hurl his robed body aside to even catch a glimpse of him again.

"FUS!"

Three or four of the Afflicted flew back off their feet and sailed over the heads of their fellow zealots, one of them crashing against a pillar in a way much too reminiscent of the Forsworn in the battle arena.

Lydia tore to her feet and tried to claw her way through the crowd to get to him, but all she met with was the pallid, gaunt eyes of the Afflicted, their greenish bruises and boil-covered faces akin to something out of a campsite story.

No, not that: out of the deepest pits of Oblivion, a thing out of nightmares.

Aela might have called out to her, said something about leaving her, maybe, or working together, but there was absolutely zero room in her mind or her heart for that woman in that exact instant. All her being, the locus of her entire existence was set upon reaching Cato before someone else had the chance to.

"YOL!" he cried out, his voice already hoarse from the shouts, and a small ball of fire engulfed an elf and another Nord, their skin sizzling sickly as they sunk to the ground in a pile of screams and black robes.

But she was moving too slow, much too slow, and the people around her were in her way, and she pushed them, pulled them, killed them, and it was as if the entire universe was pulling her back from him, as if gravity itself had changed its ways.

The blade of his sword flashed out, a black dragon tooth biting deep into the chest of a Breton mage, before it pulled out and cut halfway through the leg of a massive Nord man. He sunk to the floor and was lost underfoot as men and women struggled to either fight their intruders or flee from their wrath.

Cato was fast. Faster than most, with his Shouts and his sword, but in the end it was not enough. The bald man, the crazed cult leader, his pale face and head shining brightly in the greenish glow of the torches, bobbed easily, much too easily, and so much faster than Lydia, through the sea of black and right toward the Dragonborn, a wild menace in his eye.

_"_ _Cato!"_  Lydia cried, and it was with nothing but horror as she watched him turn round to face her, only to gasp and look into the eyes of the bald man as he stepped through his guard and, with a quick jerk, stabbed the poisoned dagger up into his gut, right to the hilt.

_"_ _No!"_

All of everything inside her drained away, and was replaced by three things: fiery loathing, and solid dread, and the simple knowledge that the bald man's death would be by her hands.

And then she was there, and then through stained-glass eyes she saw her axe take the head clean off the leader, and she didn't even watch as it fell to the ground and rolled away.

It was just her, and him, and she was holding him there in her arms as he blinked and gasped and looked down at the bone dagger protruding from his stomach, and Lydia must have started to cry then, because her vision went blurry and something hot was streaming down her cheeks.

"Lydia," he wheezed, still not quite convinced of what was happening. "Danica –"

"She's here," a voice said from above, and it might have been Aela's, but where did all the Afflicted go?

"Is she –?"

"She's fine, Cato," Aela answered softly, and it was strange to Lydia, because didn't Aela hate him? "She's right here."

"I'm here," someone said, and it must have been Danica, because a beautiful woman in a torn white dress knelt down and put her hand on Lydia's arm. "Let me look at him –"

"No!" someone else said, and Lydia thought it might be her, because her throat hurt and her head hurt and she really hadn't meant to be that rude to the priestess, but she couldn't help it because Cato was dying in her arms.

"Caught," he gasped, and he started to wince at the pain now. "Caught in the open –"

"I know," Danica said, and her voice was so soothing and soft and it didn't fit here in this place. "I know."

"Caught –"

"Shh," Danica shushed, and she tried to pry Lydia away from Cato, but Lydia would not move.

Cato screamed then, a terrible, piercing scream filled with agony, and he writhed in Lydia's arms, his hands flexing at the pain near the hilt in his gut, his neck strained with the effort, a sheen of sweat glimmering on his face.

"What's happening?" Lydia asked, her voice trembling as she spoke and her hands trembling as she placed one on his pale face and her entire body trembling at everything that was happening but couldn't really be happening but  _was!_

"I don't know," the healer said, and shouldn't she be healing him? Why wasn't she healing him? "The dagger was poisoned."

"Poisoned?" she asked, almost like she hadn't known that, but of course she did because the bald man had said so before. And she pulled the dagger from his body, even though she knew you weren't supposed to do that, not with something like this, but the poison was there, anyway, and it would only kill him faster, and she threw it away and heard it vaguely clatter against the stone somewhere to her right. And he screamed again.

"Help him!" Lydia cried, and then she cried again when Cato pulled himself from her arms and heaved up blood onto the stone floor. It might have been from the wound to his gut, or from the poison, or maybe from the shouts that made his throat so raw, but it didn't really matter, did it? "Help him!"

Cato was panting, the veins in his arms bulging against the death pulsing through them, being pumped through his body by the heart that had always kept him alive.

"Fuck, Lydia," he gasped, scanning her face wildly, looking for something there, his soft brown eyes now bloodshot and mad with fear. It terrified her, cut her deep to the bone. "It – fuckin'  _hurts –"_

"Shh," she said, trying to calm him, make him comfortable, or maybe it was for herself more than him.

"I need – I need you to –"

"Cato," she wept, placing her forehead against his own. "Shh, please, please, just – just rest."

Lydia's hands didn't know what to do, shaking uncontrollably, running through his sweat-soaked hair, down his pale face, wiping the blood from his mouth, the tears from his eyes.

_"_ _Help him!"_

"I – will try," the woman said, "but I am exhausted and I have never seen this type of –"

"Just do it!" Lydia screamed, pulling Cato closer into her arms.

There was a lot of blood, and it was staining his handsome leather armour a deep red, and Danica's hands red, and it didn't stop, and soon the blood was pooling on the stone.

The healer tried some things, whispered some stuff, used a few spells and incantations, and all the while Lydia whispered things into Cato's ear, stupid little things, things like  _it'll be alright, love_  and  _don't worry, you'll be fine_  but she knew, didn't she? She knew those were all lies. And she thought Cato might be realising it now too.

Danica wedged her hand between Cato's and Lydia's armours and placed it on his wound and a faint blue glow emanated from them, and Cato roared in agony again.

_"_ _Fuck!"_  he wheezed, fresh tears streaming down his face, and it was the only comprehensible thing she'd heard him say in a while.  _"Fuck!"_

"Stop!" Lydia sobbed. "Whatever you're doing, stop! You're hurting him!"

"I have to!" Danica cried. "He's dying!"

"No he's not! Fix him! Heal him!"

"I can't – we can't –

"Fuck! Do  _something!"_

"There's nothing –"

And then, not even in Lydia's darkest dreams did she imagine this: Cato whimpered a little, swallowed down some blood, and then stopped struggling. Just went limp in her arms.

"What happened? What happened?"

"I don't –"

"He's not breathing!" she cried, shaking him a little. "Fuck! Cato, wake up! Listen to me! Please!  _Please!"_

But he wasn't. He wasn't listening, was he? That damn fool was dying, and he'd known it, and now – now he was dead.

"Don't die!" she pleaded, begging with everything inside her, to all the gods she wasn't wholly sure were listening or even there. With everything she'd ever told him, and everything he'd ever said to her, and all the days they walked and the nights they watched the stars and the laughs they shared and the dragons they killed. For all the times she wanted to punch him for being him, and for those she wanted to kiss him for being the same, and all the times –  _oh gods,_  all the times they wouldn't have now, those conversations never spoken, those kisses never shared, because he was – dead. "Don't die."

_Please._

But he wasn't listening. The damned fool never listened.

"I can save him."

Lydia's empty shell stared up through blurry eyes and into Danica's beautifully pained face.

"…What?"

A small purplish light was hovering gently above the woman's palm, so tiny, so fragile looking, like a wisp of cloud or mist.

"It is a Detect Life spell," the healer said softly, timidly, as if she was afraid Lydia might hit her. "It's his life."

Lydia blinked. "What?"

"He is not yet dead," she said. "See?" The tiny purple light flickered dangerously low for a moment, but it remained.

"What?"

"I can help him if we leave now. I can take him to the temple and my healers will try to save him. But we must leave now," she added, glancing down to the pale, limp form of the man in Lydia's arms. "The poison is killing him. And I can't guarantee he'll make it. I'm not even sure if he's –"

She didn't finish.

"Back to Whiterun?" Aela said, and Lydia had entirely forgot the woman had even existed. "Whiterun is a five day journey from here. He'll never make it. Perhaps we should just leave –"

"No!" Lydia spat, and she struggled to stand with Cato's body in her arms. Danica helped as best she could, but the woman was weak from exhaustion. His blood and her blood and maybe someone else's blood stained her skin and his skin and the armour they both wore, and Lydia rather detested the way his head lolled over her arms and how his body felt like  _dead weight_ to her in that instant. "No! We're not leaving him. We'll carry him back to Whiterun if we have to. And  _you're helping."_

Aela looked like she wanted to say something, to protest perhaps, but Lydia's furiously passionate expression brought her up short.

It was a good thing, too, because Lydia might have ripped her throat out otherwise.

* * *

The temple was quite beautiful, she thought, all stained glass and tiled mosaics, and the yellow magic-fires glowing as bright as the midday sun. The vines twisted up the wood pillars and their tangled leaves braided through the lattice along the walls and up into the high-vaulted ceiling.

But she didn't care. Cato was in here, in some back room, and he was dying.

Lydia didn't think she had the capacity to care for anything ever again, not after this. The place smelled of lavender and it was warm and the bench was comfortable and the sound of water trickled from the small fountain at the back but she didn't care, and even all of that couldn't make her calm or still her thrashing heart or ease the seemingly unending nauseous feeling deep in the pit of her stomach.

She wasn't certain how long she had sat there, staring at the tiled blue and yellow dove on the floor, and it might have been a small moment or a lifetime later when a large, sour-faced woman in ill-fitting yellow robes emerged from a back room with a clipboard in her thick hands.

Lydia stood up as she approached, her heart rising into her parched throat.

"How is he?" she demanded, hovering over the woman's papers. "Is he alright?"

The healer clutched the clipboard close to her chest, her pinched face frowning even more than before. "Yes," she answered in a thick Nordic accent, and Lydia's entire aching body eased. "He is still alive, and more stable than when he arrived, but he is not yet awake. It's unclear when he will, or if, at this point."

"But he's ok? He's breathing?"

"Yes," the woman said sharply, and Lydia got the impression she had to do this much too often and that she liked doing it even less. "He's breathing again. More or less. It's Bettlelorn, is it not?"

Lydia let out a long, exhausted sigh that went right to the bone. "Battleborn. Can I see him?"

The woman studied Lydia for a moment. "I'm sorry, dear," she said, and it did not sound like she was sorry at all. "The healers need their space, and they have been working nonstop, and it seems likely they will continue performing their rituals deep into the night. They must not be disturbed."

She did not think for an instant that was the reason why.

"But his wound, where he was stabbed – is it still –?"

"Mm, yes. It is still, ah…  _discoloured._  The healers will try and remedy that."

Lydia shivered. Cato's wound had turned black, and purplish veins fingered away from it, as if the poison was slowly spreading through him, corrupting his flesh from the inside out. Lydia doubted she would ever get the image out of her mind now.

That one, and another one: the roguish smile he always wore, the one she loved so much, and something she was terrified she'd never see again.

It felt so distant, that memory, like from another lifetime on another planet.

Both images clouded her mind, invaded her thoughts, made it all but impossible to sleep the last couple of days. She wasn't sure which one haunted her more.

"Now I wasn't sent out here to chat, as  _entertaining_ as this has been. There's some questions I need you to answer, some things I need to report, Miss…?"

"It's Battleborn. And I already told you everything that happened."

"Yes, yes, I know, Erdi informed me. These are menial questions, but vital nonetheless."

The woman shuffled her papers a bit, pulled out a quill from one of the many pockets in her robe, and squinted down at the sheet.

"Name of patient?"

Lydia frowned. "You know his name."

"Name of patient?" the woman repeated in the same bored voice.

Lydia sighed. "Cato Aurelius Vitellas."

"Age?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Birthday?"

"The sixteenth of Evening Star, one seventy-seven fourth era. I don't see how this is helping –"

"Sex?"

Lydia frowned. "Really?"

"Sex?"

She sighed again. "Male."

"Race?"

"Imperial."

"Height?"

"I don't know – maybe this tall?" She held her hand a few inches above her head. The woman peered up from her papers for a moment, before sighing and scratching something down with her quill.

The quill was beginning to irritate Lydia. And so was this woman.

"Place of birth?"

"Why do you need to know all this?" she demanded, earning another stare from the woman. "I mean, he's the Dragonborn. Shouldn't you have all his information already?"

"Please, Miss…"

"Battleborn…"

"Right. Well, the Dragonborn has failed to show up for a single one of the Jarl's mandatory health examinations."

"Oh." Lydia was not surprised in the slightest.

"Place of birth?"

"Imperial City?"

"Is that a question? Or don't you know?"

"I don't know. He – never actually told me."

She scratched something else down.

"Current residence?"

"Breezehome."

"Number of residents?"

"Two."

"Names?"

"Me and him."

"Names?"

Lydia grit her teeth. "Cato Vitellas and Lydia Battleborn."

"Relationship to patient?"

She hesitated. "Housecarl." Best not complicate things.

"Is that all?"

Lydia blinked.  _"Yes…"_  Was it that obvious?

"Next of kin?"

"Ah… none, I guess."

"None?"

"He doesn't have any family that I know of."

"I need to put something down, Miss…"

"Battleborn." Lydia hesitated again. "Me, then."

The woman's quill scratched at the parchment and at Lydia's nerves.

"Known medical conditions?"

"No, none. Look, are we done here?"

The woman peered up from her papers and frowned. "I suppose so," she clipped, rustling her papers again. "But I must ask you to leave the temple. The healers must be left to do their jobs."

Lydia scowled. "Leave? I can't leave! I need to be here when he wakes up!"

"That will not be for quite some time, Miss –"

_"_ _Battleborn,"_  she hissed.

"Right, well, we can send someone to retrieve you when he begins stirring, if you wish. But I must ask you to vacate the temple."

"No. I'm not leaving."

The woman sighed again. "Ma'am, I apologise, but I must insist."

"No."

"I will not hesitate to call the city guard."

Lydia gave a long, hard frown at the woman, and the woman stared just as long and hard back. Lydia had a grudging respect for her in some strange way.

"Fine," she said, "just fine. Perfect, in fact. You know where to find me. Or do you need my age and sex, too? My favourite food? Perhaps my fondest childhood memory?" Lydia turned on her heel and marched toward the doors.

"Sarcasm is not a becoming quality, young lady."

Lydia wrenched the handles and turned one last time to the pudgy healer in tight-fitting yellow robes.

"No, but it helps deal with the atrocities of human interaction."

The woman smiled. "Indeed it does."

Lydia slammed the door to the temple, nearly shaking in anger and exhaustion and a million other emotions, and breathed in deeply of the cool night air.

The square was deserted at this time of night, and the Gildergreen stood vigilant in the centre, its crimson leaves fluttering softly in the small ever-present breeze that gave the Wind District its name.

There was a thousand things she had to do, a hundred different tasks she needed to get done. Pack all their equipment away, clean their weapons, get some food in her stomach, deal with the horse down in the stables – oh gods,  _the horse._  Cato would not be happy about that one when he woke up.

Lydia had convinced a farmer to part with his sickly, weak gelding, the only horse he had, for a thousand Septims.  _A thousand._  That was a lot, and for such an underwhelming beast, but the poor creature had its uses and cut their travelling time by more than half. Cato would understand. Or maybe he wouldn't.

She sighed again. No, what she really needed was a break, a moment to rest, maybe something to calm her nerves. She needed a stiff drink.

The Bannered Mare was busy, as it always seemed to be, and it was hot and stuffy and it smelled like sweat and ale, and yet Lydia wouldn't have it any other way.

She sat at the bar and bought a mead from Honningbrew just down the road, pretending to ignore the fairly steep price, and drank a third of it in one go, pretending to ignore Hulda's concerned looks. It was sweet and minty and warm all at the same time, and Lydia cradled the bottle as she smiled, thinking of how much Cato hated the stuff. She wasn't quite sure if it was just him or all Imperials who hated it. Maybe it was only the Nords who seemed to like it.

Cato.

Her smile fell, and her stomach dropped, and she downed another third of the bottle to make herself forget where he was and what had happened and the very real fact that he had very nearly died.

And he had, hadn't he? He'd died in her arms. She saw it – a few quickened breathes before the last long one, his pale skin turning colder, his body losing all strength, like a length of cord being cut. The light –

She finished off the bottle and ordered another one.

The light leaving his eyes.

Lydia tried to forget it, but she'd held others in her arms as they died, and every single one was the same.

And she'd thought about his death before, and of hers, and knew it was always a possibility, considering their particular line of work, and yet –

"We all gotta die sometime, Miss," the man beside her said, and she hadn't realised she'd spoken aloud. "So you damn well better make sure you live first."

And that was true, she supposed, and so when she was done with her second drink she ordered another.

What would happen to her if he died? Where would she go? What would she do? She had no one left in her life, and Whiterun was losing its grip on her, and she considered maybe just travelling some more. Maybe one day waking up and walking through those gates and keep on walking until she couldn't anymore, because there was nothing else to do. Maybe she'd get lost in the sands of Elsweyr, or see the never-ending swamps of the Argonian homeland, or maybe she'd walk right to the edge of the ocean. She'd always wanted to see the ocean.

"So've I," the man beside her said. "Reminds me of summat someone said to me once, a poem maybe:

_Hark, now hear the sailor's cry,_

_Smell the sea, and feel the sky…"_

And the rest of what the man said was lost as Lydia stared into the empty bottom of her fifth or sixth mead. She couldn't really remember, and to be honest, did it really matter?

"Not really," the man beside her said. "Sometimes it's a little easier to forget than to remember. And a lot less painful."

And her seventh or eighth drink agreed.

_"…_ _there was at least twenty of them, all wearing long black robes,"_  a voice said, and the hairs on Lydia's neck stood up. She took a long drink.

_"…_ _and they were closing in on us, from all sides…"_

_"_ _Might wanna slow down there, Miss…"_

_"…_ _and they came, one after the other…"_  and there were words spoken but ones Lydia couldn't remember. "… _and with swords and magic and arrows… the bald one…"_

That  _voice._  It made her… irritated.

_"…_ _were you hurt?"_

_"_ _How many did you kill…?"_

_"_ _Miss…"_

_"_ _Most of them… was too worried 'bout his slave… too slow… the Imperial… and the dagger… didn't even thank me…"_

_"…_ _drank enough, Miss…"_

No, not enough. She needed to get rid of that feeling inside her, hot and prickly and growing. Anger.

_"_ _At what, Miss…?"_

At Aela. That…  _bitch…_  was telling lies to people… not true at all…

_"…_ _about who?"_

_"_ _Fucking scib…got himself killed, he did… tried to help… and didn't wait… caught in the open…"_

No he wasn't, Lydia thought, or maybe she said it out loud. That wasn't true… Aela had rushed out first, too impatient, too…

_"_ _Imperial… she's fucking the Imperial… not worthy… and reckless, too…"_

Something snapped inside of Lydia and she stood, shaking off the hand of the man beside her, and pushed her way through the throngs of sweaty people and cold armour to the corner where she'd heard Aela's voice.

"You… fucking  _liar!"_ And she was there, and too soon she was  _too there,_  and then Lydia's fist really hurt and Aela's face must have too, because she looked angry and there was blood coming from her nose.

And the men around Aela moved away and were yelling at them, or maybe cheering or booing, but either way they were loud, and there was some blood on the floor and on Aela's hand and Aela had a wicked grin on her face.

"Good old-fashioned Nord fist fight you want, eh?" she said, or something like that, wiping more blood away.

"Fucking liar!" Lydia bellowed again, fists clenched so tight they almost hurt. "You… killed him! Too impatient, couldn't wait…glory-hungry bitch…" She swung another fist at Aela, her entire body shaking in pure, livid hatred. The woman easily dodged her slow, clumsy strikes.

"I tracked her there…" and more words, but Lydia couldn't remember. "…stupid plan, took too long… almost died…"

"No!" she screamed, taking another slow swing.

Some deep laughs around them. "…embarrassing…"

"…can't live without him…"

Aela's smile grew even more vicious. "Wait, not just fucking…" and more words. "…you  _love_ him?"

"Yes," she growled, then shook her head furiously. "No… just his Housecarl…"

"…milk-drinker here is in love with the Imperial!"

Words like  _wrong_  and  _Shor's Blood!_  and  _traitor_  and  _scib_  were thrown around, and Lydia's face grew too hot and the room was spinning much too fast and she was so unbelievably angry at Aela she could barely focus on her fucking ugly face.

"My face?" Aela snapped, and then her fist snapped too, and pain blossomed all over Lydia's own face, and when she blinked a few times she felt the blood running down it, out of her mouth, maybe. She could taste the rusty blood in there.

"…at the star-eyed little girl…till the Jarl finds out… deep shit…"

Lydia did not really care what the Jarl would say in that moment, nor did she care about anything else, really, except for Cato of course, and if she lost him then there was really nothing else to live for.

_We all gotta die sometime, Miss, so you damn well better make sure you live first._

She spit a wad of blood onto the wooden floor and tackled Aela to the ground.

* * *

**A/N: Wow! So how was that? Hope you enjoyed it!**

**A few notes:**

**The song I did not make up (mostly, I did add a few bits), and it's from the game, titled "Song of Despair", and it actually references all of the Daedric Princes. Cool, I thought.**

**The language was Greek, and here's the translations:**

**Greek: _Erysívi̱, Aíma, Dráko̱n!_**

**English: blight, blood, dragon!**

**(Senomaros, I hope that is correct! Haha)**

***PLEASE STAND BY FOR REVIEW REPLIES***


	15. Slowly Falling In

**A/N: Hello again readers! I have returned from the dead, and present you with another chapter chronicling the adventures of our dear Housecarl and her Thane! Yay!**

**So this chapter is sort of like a collection of mini-chapters. A series of shorts, if you will. There's three smaller shorts in this chapter, and the next chapter will also have three, maybe four. This is part 1 of this short collection thing. Both parts will take place over a period of time, maybe two or three weeks.**

**Fair warning - there's no daring adventures or near-death experiences here, but the fluff is strong with this one!**

**Anyways, on to the story! If you like it, please let me know! And if you hate it, well, I guess you can let me know too. I can take it.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The Morning After

* * *

Lydia remembered now why she didn't drink.

There were a great deal of reasons, really. It was much too costly. It made your breath smell of a rotting Skeever. It made you do stupid things, like punching a Companion in the face. And sometimes, it got you a free night in jail.

Lydia shook her head and immediately regretted it, heaving up nothing but pain and groans onto the stone floor of her cell.

She regretted a lot of things, she realised, teetering back against the wall and curling her nose at the smell, and wincing at the blood-crusted cut across her cheek. Like her excessive drinking last night. And for barely eating the past few days. And the Forsworn, and the cave, and this entire complete and utter disaster of a Jarl's errand. Most everything, really.

Excepting punching Aela, she thought with a small smile. She didn't regret that.

Lydia had a long list of stupid things she'd done in her life up to this point, and last night's antics were very near the top. It was unprofessional for such a high position of the Guard. It was embarrassing to others, to poor Hulda, to  _herself,_ that she'd ever let herself get that inebriated and out of control. The fact that she could barely remember what had transpired would be no excuse. She could lie and say she'd never meant to hurt the woman, but that was it – it would be a lie. She really  _had_  wanted to hurt her, and she wasn't certain that was an entirely decent thing.

And she would, no doubt, be in serious trouble from the Jarl for this entire humiliating display – if not her Captain, her father, Cato –

Cato.

Perhaps worse than her regret was her shame. Here she sat, squatting in some decrepit dark cell, alone, sick, and feeling sorry for herself, while Cato still lay on some cot, hovering on the verge of death. He might even be –

_No._  She refused to even consider the possibility that he was dead. If he died now, if he was really gone, she'd never forgive herself.

She blinked as a sliver of orange light sliced through the grimy window and fell across her face. She shielded her eyes with a hand bruised at the knuckles and crusted with blood that wasn't entirely her own.

The sun was low. It had to be, with that colour and at that angle. But was it setting? Or was it only dawn? She couldn't remember. Time was fickle with liquor and incarceration.

Gods, it smelled terrible in here.

_"_ _Do you know who I am?"_ a cross, impatient voice bellowed out in the dungeon, muffled somewhat by the mouldy straw and rags. " _I don't think you know who I am!"_

But Lydia knew. Her heart skipped a beat or two and she shot to her feet, sweaty palms gripping the steel bars in both anticipation and the need to steady her swaying body. She pressed her face against the cold steel, eyes stretching down the length of the dungeon for the owner of the voice.

"Sir, I –"

"Where is she?" the impatient voice cut off the small, timid one. "Take me to her!"

"Sir," the small voice stuttered, "I insist –"

_"_ _Now!"_

Footsteps echoed off the low stone ceiling, coming closer. Two pairs. One armoured and uncoordinated, and the other one softer, calculating, a shorter stride. This one she knew anywhere, by heart, belonging to –

_"_ _Cato!"_

"There you are! My hero!" he smirked, sauntering into view with a young, nervous guard at his heel, dressed in nothing but plain brown pants and a loose white shirt. Neither were his, but his smile was the genuine Cato brand of nonchalance and something that suggested he might know something that you didn't. Lydia's breath hitched in her throat, not quite certain if she were truly sober or dreaming some cruel dream, a pawn in a game of the gods. She swallowed dryly, her face already hurting from smiling so wide, from pulling tight at her tender wounds. His voice and face and eyes and hair and everything were so normal, so reassuring, so…  _not dead._  "You look like shit."

"Cato!" she croaked, blinking in the dim firelight.

"Do you know how many times I've wanted to punch Aela like that?" he continued, ignoring both her and the fidgeting guard behind him. "Too many to count! And you went right ahead and did it! You beat me to it!"

"Cato!" she said again, less hysterical this time. Her eyes roamed hungrily over his face, taking in his eyes, his skin, his scars, his every feature she'd never thought she'd see again. It was as if her brain needed to memorise them in the case that something ever happened again. "You – you're –"

"Alive? I should hope so," he smirked, leaning against the doorframe casually. "Still, if this was a dream, I wouldn't mind. Punching Aela! Of all the things…"

"How – how did you – how are you –?"

"Magic. Danica is quite the Healer. I can see why the Jarl –"

"Sir –" the young guard stammered, eyes darting between the reunion and the dungeon door.

"Yes, yes, I know. Now let her out."

The guard looked as if to protest, but perhaps thought the better of it and decided to take his chances with his captain instead of arguing with the Dragonborn again.

Good for him, she thought. The Captain was a hard man, callous and demanding through his age and experience, but not nearly as stubborn as Cato could be.

The young guard fumbled with his keyring for a moment, inserting a couple of wrong keys into the lock, before the poor man finally clicked the steel door open with trembling hands.

"Cato! You're alive!" Lydia cried, bursting the gate open and clutching him in a tight embrace, nearly knocking him over. "I thought you were  _dead!"_  He was warm and alive and standing and not bleeding, not dying in her arms. She buried her face into his shoulder to hide the tears welling in her eyes.

He stroked her hair in a comforting way and held her just as tight.

"Me?" she felt him smirk. "Die? No, I was just –"

White-hot fury welled up inside her and she abruptly pushed him away, bringing her hand swiftly across his face with a sharp  _crack!_

Sudden shock coloured him white, except where a hand-size red mark began to grow across his cheek. "What the fuck?"

"I – I'm sorry –"

"Lydia –"

And then her fury evaporated as quickly as it had arrived and she grabbed his hair and kissed him deeply. She felt his frown melt into a smile and his tense shoulders relax, and she ignored the fact that her clothes were filthy and she smelled of stale ale and her mouth probably tasted of – well, nothing nice, but she didn't care in the slightest because Cato was alive and standing and  _here with her_  and she knew now she would never let him leave her again, whether that be for an hour or in death.

The young guard coughed and shuffled awkwardly nearby, and Cato at least had some decency to pull away from her for the poor man's sake, his cheeks flaring red despite his darker skin.

"Ah… yes," he mumbled, pulling himself together but not letting go of her hand. "We'll show ourselves out, then."

The young man never looked so relieved in his life.

* * *

"How are you not puking everywhere?" Cato asked, warm hand still clasped tight around Lydia's as he weaved his way through the crowded marketplace. "From what I heard, you could have drank me under the table ten times over. And that's a lot. I can drink quite a bit, you know."

"First, no you can't. Second, where did you hear that?"

"From someone."

"I'm a Nord, Cato. Alcohol well-nigh runs in my veins. Hold on. I need a breath."

"Okay. Just for a minute."

She paused in the centre square near the well, leaning against it, but still holding his hand firmly. The old woman at the jewellery stall and a guard or two glared her way, but whether that was because she was now labelled the soldier who dishonoured the Companions or for another reason, maybe the fact she was holding the hand of an Imperial, she didn't know, and quite frankly she didn't give a fuck.

She squinted in the weak orange light of a late autumn sun, watching Cato's breath coalesce in the cool air and mingling with the honeyed smell of harvest apples and dying leaves. Winter would be here soon, and with it the deep snows and brilliant starry nights. And a lot of complaining from a certain Thane.

She used to enjoy winter. But she found herself willing to go without it, willing to leave the snowy mountains and icy rivers behind if it had only meant he was still alive.

"Cato…"

"Hmm?"

"This  _someone_  wouldn't happen to be Hulda… would it?"

"Perhaps," he smiled, and Lydia winced. He noticed, smiling a little more slyly, the dying sun sparkling in his eyes. "The Mare was an unholy mess of ale and splinters this morning, if you must know."

"I know," she grimaced, her fears confirmed. "She's never going to let me back there, is she?"

"Oh, I don't know. She  _was_  pretty pissed about the mess. Can we hurry this up?"

"Was she?"

He frowned a little, clearly annoyed, but answered her anyway.

"I'll be honest, I think she was a little proud."

"Proud?"

"Of you. Can we go now?"

"What's your rush?" she bit, maybe a little too harshly.

He shrugged. "I just want to go home."

She sighed tiredly.  _Home_  sounded pretty good right now.

"Alright," she groaned, pushing off the well. He smiled and led her through the throngs of people harrying and bargaining the last produce of the day, past old women with baskets of pumpkins and gourds, and men with big wolf pelts, and near-naked children running through the streets being chased by mothers with coats.

"For what?" she asked, ducking beneath two men carrying a large timber log.

"Come again?"

"Why was Hulda proud? You never told me."

She could see Breezehome just ahead, the old straw roof and carved timbers and the little garden out front that Cato had reluctantly let her plant, and her heart warmed at the thought of home despite a chilly breeze that scattered brown leaves across the cobbled street.

"For punching Aela, of course. Gods!" he laughed, stopping as he reached the door, his icy breath swelling out in a large cloud. "I still can't believe that! That's the best thing I've heard in a long while! What a story."

She watched him slide the key out of his pocket and slip it deftly into the door lock in one smooth motion. The door swung open, creaking only once like it always did, and a gust of warm air greeted her kindly. "So, you aren't mad at me?"

"For what?" he asked, tugging her hand toward the door, but she refused to move. He turned around, eyeing her.

"For almost murdering a Companion? For nearly failing the mission? For letting you –"

"Die?" he finished, and her stomach wrenched violently at the mere word. "But you  _didn't._ To any of those.  _Almost_ isn't the same as  _certainly._ "

"It's close enough." She paused, turning to watch an ox-pulled cart clatter slowly down the street with piles of empty baskets and a few small children enjoying the free ride. She turned back to him. "You really scared me, Cato. I really thought you'd died. I don't know what I'd do if you did."

"Well, I  _didn't,"_  he said, smiling as he stroked her cheek softly. His too-warm hand left a burning line where he touched her, a stark contrast to her own icy skin and the frigid air around them. "I've got to kill the World-Eater first, remember? No dying for me just yet."

"But –"

"Let's go inside."

She hesitated for a moment then glanced down to his stomach a little uncomfortably. "Can I see it?" she whispered.

"It's… probably best you don't."

She frowned a little but figured he was right.

"Well, can we talk about it then?"

"Not right now," he said. "There's always later. I'm just happy you're here." He tugged her along again, a little smile on his lips. "Can't that be enough?"

Maybe. Maybe she could let her overwhelming delight override her concern, her serious disposition. Maybe. Just this once. There would always be later.

She followed him inside, stepping over the threshold and into the darker quiet of Breezehome, cutting out the chatter of the city and the cold of the looming night.

"Well, yes, I guess. But I'm not going to just  _mmfp –"_

He pushed her against the door rather forcefully and he kissed her, both his hands holding her face firmly, and the door clicked shut as she stumbled back into it.

Her heart skipped again and she froze, only a moment, before melting into him, the room around her fading gently into nothing but white noise. Her hands were splayed against the smooth grain of the wood, and she felt his warm hand snake down to her waist, pulling her entire body in even closer against his than she thought possible.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, surfacing for air.

"Finishing that kiss."

Damn him.

"Couldn't you have waited?"

"No," he grumbled, his voice low, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. She could feel it against her breast. "I really couldn't. And who are you to talk to me about waiting? You do that to me, and then you just sit there,  _taking a breath_  like this is some sort of school trip. And you chose the  _worst spot possible_  to kiss me. Twice, actually. So, in a way, you should be thanking me."

"Thanking you? For what?"

He reached behind her and hastily triple locked the door like he always did.

"For closing the door."

He kissed her again and then swept her up off the ground and into his arms in another swift motion, and turned around, heading for the stairs.

"Where are you going? What are you doing?" Lydia laughed, swaying as he teetered up the narrow creaky stairway with some difficulty. She held onto his neck for support, not certain he could really do this. "Are you going to drop me?"

"Stop asking questions," he grunted with the effort.

"Really, Cato, stop!" she chuckled, ducking to avoid banging her head on the low outcropping. "You're going to pull a stitch or something."

"I'm being romantic. Shut up."

"Romantic? This is romantic?"

"You –  _ah –_  you're heavier than I remember."

Lydia frowned, but found she could not really be angry. "Real charming."

"That's not what I meant. Fuck," he wheezed. "I can't do this. Hold on."

He set her down a few steps from the top for a short moment, then bent and threw her over his shoulder like a dead deer.

"There."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Slung over like a dead –  _Cato!"_

"What?" he asked, as if he had just not grabbed a handful of her ass.

"You know what, you cheeky bastard! What happened to being romantic?"

"This isn't romantic?"

"No!"

"Hm," he shrugged, taking a breath as he reached the top. "Cultural differences."

"Cultural differences my ass."

"Exactly," he smirked, slipping through the doorway to his bedroom.

He wriggled her off his shoulder rather crudely and set her on the bed with a little more grace, smiling as he leaned over her and then above her and then against her as he kissed her there.

She fell deep into the pile of soft furs and pulled him with her, feeling nothing but warmth and delight and his body against hers.

"I missed you," he breathed, his warm breath ghosting across her neck as he kissed her there.

"And I, you."

He hovered just above, his rough fingers gliding across her neck, her arm, her waist, and her own hands twisted in his hair. He looked down at the woman beneath him with nothing but elation sparkling in his eyes, and he kissed her once, twice, and again, each time a little slower, a little deeper than before.

She smelled him, breathed him in. He smelled of nothing, really, except maybe the sterile smell of medicine. She didn't really like that, and flashes of his dead body in her arms flickered through her mind.

And they darted out just as quick when he snaked his hand round her back and pulled her closer to him once again until her softer curves were pressed against his hard frame. The blood rushed to her cheeks when Cato ran the tip of his nose along her neck, right from the edge of her collarbone to that spot at her jaw, under her ear. And back down again.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed, hot breath fanning against the sensitive skin of her throat. "I always wanted to tell you that."

"Why didn't you?" she gasped, feeling his hand move lower down her back. It came to rest at the small of it.

"Do you see what you do to me?" He reached up with his free hand and took her own from his hair to place it against his chest. She could feel his heart throbbing wildly through the thin white fabric, beating faster that than a bird's, more frantic than a rabbit's. "I was terrified you would say no."

"You? Afraid?"

He smiled down at her and set her hand free. "I may be Dragonborn and all, but that doesn't mean I can't hold fear."

Lydia felt a heat begin to spread out from deep in her chest in thrumming waves. Her face hurt from the beating Aela had given her, and her head still sort of throbbed from the night of hard drinking, but she didn't care. His thumb brushed over the long cut across her cheek in a slow, soft way, a way that prayed for a speedy recovery but also one that told her he knew what she did last night, and that he knew she did it for him.

And his fingers swept over the little mark on her neck, the one he'd given her before. It was still there. Faded, but there.

She felt him smile against her lips.

"What are you thinking?" she whispered, forcing him to breathe.

He smiled again, eyes heavy and half closed. "I'm thinking we should pick up where we left off," he breathed into her ear. "By the river."

That sent a shiver up her spine and a surprising jolt of need deep within her, and she arced her hips up to him, causing him to groan a little. "Yeah?" she croaked, and it was such a stupid thing to say, but her brain wasn't quite functioning at that moment. She could feel his bony hips against hers, his flat stomach, his growing need.

"Mmm… yeah, I do."

She smiled back, her heart thrashing in her rib cage, and with some measure of bravery her hand slid down his chest and to his stomach slowly.

"I think you –"

_"_ _Ah!"_  he hissed sharply, recoiling at her touch. She withdrew and sat up on the bed, pushing him a little further from her.

"Cato? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he winced, touching at his stomach tenderly. "Nothing."

She frowned. "It's not nothing."

"Yeah, I think you were right," he chuckled, looking up at her. "I think I might have pulled a stitch carrying you up the stairs." He smiled again, flashing all his teeth. "It's ok though. That's the price of chivalry. I'll live."

"No you won't," she said, pushing his attempted kiss away. "You need to take it easy."

"I'll be fine. Really."

His hair was ruffled and his shirt crumpled and he was so close to her and  _gods dammit_  but she wanted him to be fine.

"No, you won't."

"Lydia –"

"No."

He pulled back from her, a small frown on his face, and he sighed in exasperated defeat. "Well,  _now_  I won't. There's consequences for kissing a man while on his bed, you know."

"What?"

She glanced down lower, down to where there was a growing and undeniably painful bulge at the front of his pants.

She blushed a little, but not as much as she thought she should have.

"What am I going to do about this now?" he complained, gesturing down to his pants.

"That's your problem," she shrugged, "not mine."

"It  _is_  your problem!"

She straightened up a little, correcting her ruffled shirt and smoothing out her hair. "No it's not. You'll live."

"Okay I'll admit," he said, propping himself up on one elbow. "I wasn't expecting a lot from you, but I at least thought there'd be more kissing, and touching. Of dicks and boobs." He glanced up to Lydia's chest, and she did relatively well at hiding the red creeping up her neck. "I like your boobs."

She froze and could feel a different heat creeping up from within – this one not so pleasant.

" _I like your boobs?_  Cato, what the fuck happened to  _you're so beautiful?"_

"Sorry!" he said, ducking his head. "I guess I don't have a lot of lines." She frowned at him still, but it softened. She couldn't stay mad at him. Not really. Not when he smiled like that. "Can I touch your boobs though?"

Her frown lashed back into place. "No, you  _cannot_  touch my boobs!"

"Well, can you touch my –"

_"_ _No!"_  She pulled her hair back into a rough pony, frowning down at him. "Men are  _pigs."_

"Wait," he said, grabbing hold of her arm. "Don't leave."

She gave him a strange look. "I didn't move."

He hesitated, letting her go. "I know, it's just - I've dreamed of you in this bedroom for so long, and I'm loathe to let you go."

Her skin prickled at the thought of him laying here, thinking of her in the dark watches of the night, and she nearly laughed aloud at how she'd done the same for so long in the next room.

"I don't have to leave. I can stay. Just nothing too physical."

He smiled. "Kissing, then?

"Just kissing."

"And cuddling?"

She paused, smirking at his pleading face. "Fine. Cuddling too."

And he pulled her back down onto the bed, slipping an arm under her head, letting her feel the rise and fall of his chest against her cheek, the steady beating of his heart beneath his shirt. She placed her hand there so she could feel it through her palm, too.

She waited until his breathing slowed, his heartbeat surged a little less. She waited until he hovered on the verge of a sleep fueled by exhaustion and total security.

"Cato?" she whispered.

"Yeah?"

"No more adventuring. For a little while, at least."

"Okay."

"And Cato?"

"Hm?"

"No more caves.  _Ever."_

"Agreed."

And he waited until she was almost there, too, until sleep and warmth almost took her.

"Stay with me tonight?"

She smiled faintly, and that was all the answer he needed.

* * *

Foolish Things

* * *

"It's a beautiful country, isn't it?" asked Danica, staring out at the unending windswept plains before them.

The woman was weak still from the journey home, from the horrors she'd endured in her time with the Afflicted, and she needed Lydia's arm to support her as they walked. Lydia tried to keep to the flattest parts of the road, and they had been walking alongside the little creek winding its way through the rugged grasses just outside the walls of the city for some time now, looking for a place to cross.

"Is it?"

"Well, it is a hard country, of course, to those who don't know its ways. It can be tough, unforgiving at times. But there's something noble here, too. It has honesty, integrity. Magic."

"I can't say I see the beauty of it."

"No? What do you see?"

Lydia let her eyes wander over the rocky dirt, the grassy slopes spotted with uneven patches of sedge and scrub, studded with outcrops of brown and grey rock and bony, stunted trees. Barren land far as the eye could see.

"I see good pitch for a battle, so long as you got here first."

"Really? How so?"

"Well, for the most part it's too open. You'd see your attackers come from every direction, there'd be no need to really keep watch." Lydia pointed to a knobbly hill. "If you're on the other end, though, the small bluff there could hide a good ten, fifteen men behind it, a little less if they were on horse. The road leads maybe fifty paces from it: not so far another army wouldn't be wary, but close enough they'd send a few scouts round those rocks to come see." She traced the path of the road before them, winding through the rocks and the hill.

"Rushing out would startle them, sure, and probably enough to fight back. But you get even more men just behind the hill there," she pointed, "a whole company, maybe, flank them, bring them up short, they wouldn't know what hit them. They'd scatter to the four winds. Archers up high, back behind those trees, would have an easy time picking them off, targeting any mages, as well. There'd be nothing left of them in less than five minutes." She shrugged, letting her hand fall to her side. "That's what I see."

"Hmm," Danica pondered, her wise sun-wrinkled face deep in thought. "You have the eyes and mind of a true warrior, then."

"Not always," Lydia frowned. "I don't know when I stopped seeing the beauty of this place."

"Does that frighten you?"

Danica halted by the bank, and Lydia had no choice but to stop as well. The small weed-choked creek hurried past her feet on its way to join the stream, and then the stream would join the great White River and out into the icy northern seas. Such a long journey.

"Yes," Lydia said after a long moment. "But Fear is a good friend. It's kept me alive this long. The dead are fearless, and I don't care to join them. And they were good. History is littered with good dead men."

"You don't think you are good?"

Lydia frowned again, looking into the healer's icy eyes. "Well, I try to be. I took an oath as a soldier to protect the citizens of Skyrim, no matter the cost. But it seems lately I've been killing more people than monsters. Only the cowardly stoop that low."

"But it was brave of you to bring him back."

"Brave?" Lydia scoffed, turning away from Danica's soft eyes. "I'm not brave. I was too afraid to live without him."

"A man can only be brave when he is afraid," the Priestess said, her voice soothing as the creek below them. "Or a woman, of course. Lydia, my dear, you did not fail him."

The warrior said nothing. A chill wind from the east bit her to the bone.

"He did die, you know," Danica said. "The poison stopped his heart."

"I know," Lydia whispered.

"It wasn't long after he was wounded. The poison was much too strong, flowed much too quickly through his veins. To anyone else, that would have been the end." She stopped, tilting her head as if pondering the cosmos. "There is something inside him that keeps him alive, lets him survive the worst possible pains. I've never seen anything like it. I have read many books in my time, books on old magics and ancient kings, and I never found a thing."

"So you don't know why?"

The older woman smiled sadly. "I don't truly know anything, and I've never pretended otherwise. It is foolish to do so. This world is much too grand for one mortal to fully understand the will of the gods. But yes, I have an idea."

Lydia looked in her eyes.

"It's the dragons inside him. He isn't the only soul in that body, remember. Their blood flows through his veins, their magic and wisdom and purpose. They are  _part_  of him, just as your hands and feet are part of you. You can sever a finger or a thumb or a toe, and the body still lives on. Not quite whole, but it does. Remove a vital part, however, say the head or the heart, and the entire being seizes to be."

Lydia frowned. "What are you saying?"

The woman's eyes softened a little. "That Cato may not be the most vital soul in that body. Not anymore."

"Oh."

"What that means for him, or for you, I do not know. But hearken me, dear friend:  _always remember that faith sprung from a barren branch, that light has no fear of darkness, and above all, that strength lives in an open heart."_

The words chilled Lydia to the bone deeper than any draught could. "What is that?"

"It's from  _The Crusader,_  the Holy Book of Kyne. It is my favourite verse."

"What does it mean?"

The woman smiled. "Hope."

Danica resumed walking and Lydia followed suit, providing a leaning hand. They followed the creek, winding through the tall grass and barren stumps, until they finally found the small stone bridge. The thing was ancient, older than memory, but built with skill and care. It had withstood wars and snows and dragons. Small children would gather here in the short summers, catching frogs and jumping to the icy water below. Lydia had been one of them once, a long time ago.

She stopped at the foot of the bridge and turned to face Danica.

"I just… wanted to apologise," she said, not quite able to look into her too-forgiving eyes. "For the way I acted. For dragging you through the night back to Whiterun. For everything. I – wasn't really in the best frame of mind."

"Love makes you do foolish things."

Lydia looked up and blinked. "Love?"

"Yes. Fear and bravery and hope are strong forces, dear, but love is the strongest of all."

The healer looked past Lydia and to the stone bridge, then back to the warrior. She smiled. "Come. It's getting late. The beasts of the night will be out soon enough."

* * *

Worthy

* * *

He was not there when she woke up.

At first her heart started hammering, her mind running through the worst possible scenarios. Assassins had killed him. Mercenaries had taken him. Aela had been freed from her cell and come to take her revenge.

But that was the adventurer inside her. She was not in a tent on the plains, not in some cave in the mountains. She was in his room at home. And she knew where she would find him.

She sighed in relief and pulled the furs off, heading for the dresser, looking for something decent to wear. She'd moved some of the furniture into his room, some of her clothes and books and personal items. The room was larger, he'd said, and she thought it would be nice to display some of her stuff on his shelves, but they both knew there was more to it.

She picked out a white wool sweater and some warm pants, slipping them on in the dim candlelight. It was so cold in the mornings now, and the sun had yet to break over the horizon as she left Breezehome and made her way down the empty streets to the stables outside the city. Her breath puffed out white against the dark sky, and she smiled as she gazed up at the little stars above.

The guard at the gate greeted her somewhat groggily, perhaps just beginning his shift. Or ending it. Either way, he let her through and she stepped carefully over the rough stones down the path. She smiled when she saw him.

"I'm surprised you're here," she said, voice a little rough from disuse. "I thought you hated him."

Cato looked up from the grey horse he was brushing, his smile wide as he watched her pick her way down the hill. He was dressed in a similar fashion to Lydia, with a warm sweater and pants, but his were darker, made of ox hair.

"Yeah, well, he still smells," he said, kissing her as she came to stand beside him.

Lydia placed her hand on his back and pulled the sweater closer to her, the coarse wool scratching at her chin. "Horses smell. It's not news. Brush him all you want, he'll still smell like that."

Cato frowned, eyeing the great beast carefully. "He does look better though, doesn't he?"

Lydia looked at the horse as well. The poor underfed creature she'd bargained from the farmer had been thrown in the stables upon their arrival, much to the displeasure of the stable master. But the man had given him straw and harvest apples and fresh water, and the animal had begun filling out his gaunt stature, swelling out in the flanks and rounding out in the gut. And his dull dusty coat had, with regular brushing, given way to a sleek, shiny silver, dappled with flecks of light and dark.

"He does," she agreed. "A fine animal, once a little more meat is on his bones."

"I still can't believe he carried me all the way back."

"You, and Danica sometimes too. He's a Nordic horse. They're all strong."

Cato smiled, placing his hand on the horse's forehead over the white star. "Yeah. Not the weakest any more, are you Weakest?"

The grey horse snorted and shook its head as if it understood the Dragonborn. Who knows, maybe it did.

Lydia rolled her eyes. "You pick the worst names."

"Hey," Cato smirked, patting the side of the creature's head. "It was you, really."

"No it wasn't."

"Yeah it was. You told me he was the weakest horse the farmer had. And that's what he was: the weakest."

"So? You picked a random word from that sentence then? Why didn't you name him farmer, or just horse?"

"Ha!" he barked, startling some of the other horses in the stables. "A horse named Farmer! Now  _that's_  a stupid name."

"Not as stupid as Weakest."

Cato sighed but smiled a little. "Yeah. Guess you're right. He's not really worthy of his name, not anymore."

Lydia laughed. "Well, there you go!"

"What?"

"His new name. Worthy."

Cato's brows creased. "Worthy?"

"That's what he is, isn't he? He  _was_  the weakest, and  _now_  he's worthy. Worthy. You like that name, boy?" she asked the horse, patting his neck. "Worthy?"

The horse said nothing, but stomped his foot impatiently.

"There," she said, taking her hand away. "He likes it."

Cato eyed the beast again, running a hand through the black mane now free of tangles, down the dappled fur of his neck, around the curve of his shoulders, across the dip of his back.

"Worthy," he said, tasting the word on his tongue. "Worthy. Well, it's better than Weakest, I guess. What do you say, boy? You like that name?" He scratched at the horse's neck, smiling affectionately.

Lydia smiled. "You going soft, Cato?"

"What? Me? No. What makes you say that?"

"You've been coming out here earlier and earlier every day. I've noticed. It's almost like you like him or something."

Cato shrugged, bending down to pick up the brush again. "I just figured we should probably fatten him up, make him not look like a pile of bones before we sell him."

"A horse is useful, Cato," she argued, watching him walk around the beast's rear to groom his left flank. "It speeds up the journey."

"Yeah, well, they also smell, and eat a lot, and shit even more, and cost money to keep, and jump at every rabbit on the road."

"But he saved your life."

That one gave him pause. "He did, didn't he?"

"Get to know him a bit better," she pleaded. "Take him out some time. He's really good off road, Cato. He can handle hills with ease. And he doesn't spook easily."

"No way! I  _can't stand_  to be in the saddle! What's the point of having a horse if I don't ride it?"

"You know," she said, running her hand softly down Worthy's neck again. "It's okay to change your opinion on something."

"Uh-oh. That sounds like a segue into a lecture."

"No. Just a reminder that I changed my mind, too. About you."

He frowned a little, watching her stroke the horse. "What? You decided my character or some shit was more important than the country I was born in?"

"No," she smirked, "I thought you were ugly before, but now I think you're a little less ugly."

"Haha," he said flatly. "So fucking funny."

"You can admit to liking him. No one's going to call you out on it. We can keep him, if you want."

Cato remained silent for a moment. He reached over to a sawhorse and took a red apple from the rusty tin, holding his hand out for the beast. The horse's loose lips grappled the fruit with ease, taking the entire thing in at once, sprinkling juice onto the floor and Cato's hand.

"Alright," he said, smiling as the horse licked the juice from his palm. "Maybe for a little while. But I still think he smells."

* * *

**A/N: The conversation with Danica and Lydia was heavily influenced by the book _The Blade Itself_  by Joe Abercrombie. It's an amazing story, and I 100% recommend it for gritty fantasy fans.**

**The little saying that Danica repeats was not my creation. It is from _Dragon Age: Inquisition,_  and it's part of Leliana's personal quest to find Justinia's final gift to her. Again, I highly recommend the game if you, for some insane reason, haven't already played it.**


	16. Love With You

**A/N: Hello again! I hope you all had a wonderful Halloween and Thanksgiving (if not from the States). I sure did! So anyways, I have returned and here is the next chapter for you! Like the last chapter, this one is a set of smaller chapters, four this time, and during the same couple of weeks while Cato is healing.**

**Today (the 11th, though most of you will probably read this on the 12th) is a big day. Can you guys believe that four years ago today Skyrim was released? It seems only yesterday. I still go back and play it sometimes. And Fallout 4 came out yesterday! I die a little inside every time I think about that. I don't have an XBONE or PS4 and my computer is not good enough to play it. I feel so poor sometimes. And, lastly, it is Remembrance Day (Veteran's Day in the States, I think). So, yes, today was a little emotional, haha.**

**Please be warned: there is a small semi-smut part below. I understand this story is rated Teen, so I tried to keep it clean. If you think it's too much for T, I will change it to M. Just let me know what you think.**

**Hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

PDA

* * *

Lydia was never one for jewellery, expensive and impractical as they were, and in fact she could not recall ever owning a piece, but the necklace in the display case managed to catch her eye.

It was nothing special, really. Just a simple silver circle polished clean with tiny engraved designs so intricate they seemed to move when she held it up to the sunlight. Set in the centre was a small, flawless sapphire, so brilliantly blue it looked as if the jeweller had taken a chunk of glacier and fixed it there with magic. The entire thing was quite subtle, but yet so refined she could not look away.

"That's nice," Cato said as he placed a hand on the small of her back, sideling up to her. She jerked in surprise, almost dropping the necklace into the street. "What is it?"

_"_ _It's a sword,"_  she bit, a little embarrassed she'd been caught. "What does it look like?"

"Hey," he shrugged, his hand sliding round her waist in an almost unconscious way. "If I knew what it was I wouldn't have asked. I meant what does it do?"

"What?"

"Whose amulet is it?" he asked, bending a little closer to inspect the piece. "Which God? What magic is in it?"

"None," she said, cheeks turning a little red, something that had very little to do with the frigid air. "It's – it's just a necklace."

"Oh."

There was an awkward silence then, and Lydia suddenly found herself very interested in the smoke rising from the chimney in the distance. Luckily it wasn't a long one.

"It's nice," he said after a short moment. "Why don't you get it?"

"I – well," she stuttered, "It's not very practical, is it?" She set it back down in the case beside the other jewellery, carefully not to get her fingerprints on the silver. "I'd probably choke on it or break it under my armour. Besides," she shrugged a little, "I don't wear jewellery."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Never really have."

"You should," he smiled wide, wrapping both arms around her waist and pulling her in closer, his chin resting on her shoulder. "It would look amazing on you."

She smiled a tiny bit, taken aback somewhat at this public display of affection, but again, she found she did not care. He was a warm body in the crisp air and she could feel his strong chest rise and fall against her back, his fingers on her stomach. The entire thing felt so normal, so comfortable, so… _right._  She didn't want him to let go. "You really think so?"

"Yeah," he murmured, kissing her shoulder. "I do."

She hesitated, looking down at the necklace in the case, and sighed. "No it wouldn't. Not really. I'm too –"

"Too what?"

"I don't know," she shrugged again, shivering when the short scruff on his face tickled her cheek. "I'm not like that."

"Like what?" he breathed, rubbing his face against hers, smiling as she shivered at his touch. He'd have to remember that one. "You have a neck, don't you? You wear enchanted amulets all the time."

"I know, but it's not the same. Nobles wear them. Beautiful women in expensive dresses, at their lord's every beck and call. Not soldiers, not warriors."

"I can get you a dress if you want," he smirked, kissing her shoulder again in playful suggestiveness. "If that's all it'll take."

"Right. Now  _that_  would be a sight," she said bitterly. "Can you image me –"

"Lydia, stop doing that."

She blinked. "What?"

_"_ _That,"_  he said, prying himself away from her but still holding her hands, and she shivered at the absence of warmth. "Putting yourself down all the time, saying mean things about yourself." He gazed steadily in her eyes, a frown on his face. "They're not true. You're beautiful. I've said it before."

"What's with all the touchy-feely today?" she asked, raising her brow. "What do you want? Wait, what did you do wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, placing a warm hand on her cheek. Her frown melted away and she couldn't help but lean into it, craving more of his warmth, more of  _him._  "I just don't like hearing you say stuff like that."

"Flatterer."

"You don't believe me?"

Lydia pulled away and gave him a skeptical glower which said  _No, not at all, you liar._

"What?" he said, a smirk slowly crawling its way onto his face. "You need me to say it again?"

A sudden panic overtook her – she knew that look. "Cato, don't –"

"Excuse me, good citizens of Whiterun!" he cried out, turning to the congested, dirty market square, one hand still firmly latched onto hers and a determined grin on his face. "If I could have a moment of your time, as this is an urgent public announcement: Lydia Battleborn here – yes, this woman right here –" he said, smiling wide and gesturing to her, and it was all she could do to not bury her face in her free hand as every single eye in the village halted and stared at the display. "Lydia here is the bravest, most beautiful warrior that I've ever had the privilege to know. She's saved my life a hundred more times than she should have and a thousand times more than anyone else ever would. She's beautiful," he continued, "on the inside and out, and I'm astonished she's put up with me this long and so thankful that she's still there when I wake up. I think I speak for all of Whiterun when I say she is a stellar soldier and an even more remarkable person."

"What about me?" the haggard drunk Brenuin grumbled from his seat on the dusty steps of the Bannered Mare. "Ya fuckin' lyin' Provincial – thought _I_  was the prettiest?"

"Sorry, buddy," Cato smirked, placing his hand on Lydia's back again, "you've been replaced."

"Well,  _fuck,"_  Brenuin groaned, downing the rest of his ale.

"Oh my Gods," Lydia moaned, hiding her face in her hands as the people started moving again, shuffling their slow way past. "I can't believe you just did that."

Her ears were on fire and she was certain she'd turned three shades darker, but he didn't seem to care.

"Well, apparently you didn't hear me the first thousand times I told you."

She slid her fingers past her eyes to peek out at him. "Alright, I get it. I won't say it again."

"Good," he grinned, clearly and obnoxiously satisfied with himself.

Lydia frowned and dropped her arms, looking him up and down, from the new leather boots she bought him to the unruly hair on his head that never seemed to stay flat despite his efforts. She was livid and embarrassed and her heart was thumping wildly but she also thought it was kind of sweet in a queer sort of way.

"I don't know if I want to slap that stupid smirk off your face or kiss you," she frowned, crossing her arms. "You are strangely very attractive to me right now."

"Guess I'll have to make more public announcements, then," he said, and he took her into his arms and kissed her under the sunlit sky, and they cared not that they stood in the dirty market square and in the sight of many. And many indeed saw them – the guard against the post, the jeweller behind the stall, the children who laughed and whistled round the corner at the dragon man from the south.

Lydia's cheeks were fiery and burning and Cato still had that stupid grin on his face when they parted, breathless and lightheaded, his hand tight round her waist and her own fisted in the front of his shirt.

"Alright," she breathed, revelling in the feeling of his roughspun wool sweater beneath her fingertips and his bright, blazing eyes filled with nothing but pure delight and maybe a little mischief. "Just don't go off and do anything else stupid. Or go all gooey on me again. And don't you  _dare_  spend all that money on the necklace. Or anything else."

He smiled wider, flashing all his teeth, his warm breath against her cheeks. "Alright, if that's what you want."

"It is."

She loved his smile. Always had. There was just something about it, about  _him,_  that made her smile too, and she was never really sure if that was his intention or merely a by-product, or perhaps part of the whole of who he was. Did it really matter though?

She sighed. "I'm never taking you out in public again."

"Oh, you loved it," he smirked. "Don't lie."

Lydia glared at him.

She kind of did.

* * *

First Fight

* * *

"How many times do I have to remind you that you can't outdrink me?"

"Right," Cato coughed, setting his mug down on the table with a loud crack. "I should just accept that your blood is made of mead."

Lydia laughed aloud before finishing off the last of her ale, the sound turning a few heads to the little corner table of the tavern they were in – the Drunken Huntsman. "About time. It only took you  _the entire time we've known each other."_

"Hey, don't get smart."

She smiled a little, relaxing back in her chair, the drink slowly getting to her now. But more than that, she was  _letting_  it. She'd swore she'd never touch the stuff again, not after the Bannered Mare fiasco, but in all honesty Lydia didn't care. She'd been breaking all the rules lately, so what more was this one?

"You know, I like it here. Don't know why I never came that often."

He mirrored her, smiling a stupid grin and the one that let Lydia know he was further gone than she. "Yeah. Not sure, really. It's not as big as the Mare and Anoriath doesn't bring in many bards, but hey," he said, waving his hand around the hazy air, "it's just across the street. The food's pretty good, and they've got some actually decent drink, not just that horse piss you Nords drink."

"Oh, you mean that wine and flin you keep droning on about?  _That_  decent drink?"

"Yeah. That stuff.  _Goooood_  shit."

Lydia rolled her eyes, idly playing with her mug. "Why don't you just marry it already?"

"Good idea."

"You know who drinks wine?" she smirked, leaning in closer in a sort of conspiratorial way.

"Hm?"

"The nobility that can afford it," she began, "politicians who steal it, and the rabble that pretend to be either. Since you have no money and don't know what the fuck you're talking about most of the time, I'd guess you're the last one."

"And brandy," he said, staring lazily at the ceiling. "Brandy's pretty fuckin' good too, you got to admit."

She frowned and tilted her head a little. "Are you even listening to me?"

_"_ _Cyrodiilic_  brandy. Not your nasty tar."

_"_ _Cato!"_

"Hm? What you say?" He brought his eyes down to meet hers. "Sorry, wasn't listening."

She crossed her arms. "I hate you, you know."

"Hate you too."

A moment passed, maybe two, and he smiled at her, and she smiled at him.

He nodded toward the empty mug in her hand. "You want another?"

"You don't have to," she said, eying him as he stood, a little wobbly, and reached for her mug.

"I know." He smirked an infinitesimal smirk and she knew he let his warm fingers linger on hers for just a second too long, and then he was gone, weaving through the small crowd to the small bar, making small talk with the Bosmer behind it.

And Lydia stared at his ass.

It wasn't as if there was nothing else to look at in the place – no, there was a myriad of trophies on the wooden walls, elk heads and mammoth tusks and nasty-looking mounted slaughterfish, and there was an enormous pig roasting over the centre fire, and the folk in the shadowy corners were of less than a savoury type here. But she wanted to.

And a thought crossed her mind then – _why do people think other people's asses are attractive?_ She really had no answer, but she knew, somewhere deep inside her slight ale-addled brain, that she really liked Cato's. Like,  _really._

He paid the barkeep and snaked through the growing late-night crowd, joking and laughing with those around him, balancing two fresh mugs brimming with ale.

He smiled at her as he slid into his seat, pushing one of the mugs across the table.

"You look smug. What is it?"

_Fuck it._  "You have a very attractive ass, you know."

He smirked, the level of alcohol in his blood too high to effectively conceal his complacent smile. "Do I now?"

"Mhm," she said, sipping at the foamy drink.

"Well," he whispered in her ear, leaning closer like she'd recently done. "You want to see it later? Up close, I mean? In  _higher_  definition."

"You're funny," she said, pushing him away.

He sat back in his chair again, smiling. "Hey, I'm not the one who complimented someone else's  _ass_ , of all things. What about my face?"

"What about it?"

"I don't know, I just feel like it feels a little left out."

"It's going to feel a little more painful in a moment."

"Why do you always do that?"

Lydia looked up from her drink. "Do what?"

"Say things like that," he shrugged. "Threaten to punch me all the time. You never do."

She raised her eyebrows. "You complaining?"

"No," he smirked, "just observing."

"Right."

"So," he said slyly, making Lydia narrow her eyes. "Is this the part where I tell you the same thing? I – well, not the attractive ass thing – not saying you  _don't_ have an attractive ass, I mean –"

"What  _do_  you mean?" Lydia rather enjoyed watching him fumble around like this.

He sighed, clearly giving up. "I don't know. Your face, I guess. I like it."

_"_ _I like it?"_  she smiled, not even angry at him. "Cato the Bard, always so eloquent with words. They will write stories of you one day, long after you're dead and gone."

His laugh broke and his smile wavered and then he stared down into his ale. Lydia pursed her lips, letting the silence linger for a moment.

"Cato?"

"Can I ask you something?" he said, looking back up from his drink.

"Of course," she said, reaching out to hold his hand on the table.

He hesitated a moment, looking down at their entwined hands: his darker one, riddled with scars, and her lighter one, hardened with callouses. So different, they were, and yet both had killed dragons.

"You said something to me the other day. About me dying."

Lydia frowned, pulling her hand away from his. "Cato, can we not –"

He held hers tight, refusing to let it go. "Did you mean it? Would you have really left if I did?"

She shrugged. "Well, yeah, I guess. Why would I want to stick around here?"

His frown deepened. "Because this is your  _home?_  You have your family here, and a house, and all your friends!" he stressed, voice raising a little as he went on. "Why would you leave all that?"

She gave him a strange look. "Home isn't really one place, Cato. It's wherever I lay my head down to sleep, whenever someone isn't trying to stick a poisoned blade in my gut."

"I –" he staggered. Whatever he thought she would say, _that_  certainly wasn't it. "Well, I wouldn't say –"

"Breezehome  _isn't_  mine, and I  _never_  really cared about the people here, and the only family I have is sitting up in the Jarl's hall, rotting away in his bitterness!" she yanked her hand from his, and he flinched, surprised at her outburst. "And  _you're_  one to talk. Look at you! You left your home, you left your country, your people! You left  _everything_  behind! Why's it so hard to believe I'd do the same?"

He didn't say anything. He just sat there, playing with his mug, staring at the unswept floor. What  _could_ he say?

She sighed and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Cato. I didn't mean that."

"No,  _I_  am. I shouldn't have brought it up," he said, glancing up from the floor. "I'm supposed to be healing, not tearing open old wounds. Danica's orders," he added with a small smile.

"You stupid man," she laughed a little, blinking her eyes before the tears fell, and she really had no idea why she felt like crying, but she did. "I've seen you fight dragons and monsters and yet you let a little dagger nearly kill you."

He smiled a little. "I've been mediocre at everything in my life except at surviving. I'm pretty damn good at it."

"That's not true," she said.

"It isn't?"

"No. You're pretty good at getting into trouble."

"Ha," he huffed in amusement, "you're right there."

He finished the rest of his ale, at least half of it, in one long go, and she watched him cringe a little. Why he drank the stuff when all he did was complain, she would never know. Perhaps he really did like it. She wouldn't be surprised.

When he was done he stared at his mug, smirking.

"What?" she asked, eyeing him carefully. "Do I even want to know?"

"Did we just have our first fight?"

She smiled a little. "I wouldn't really call that a fight, seeing as we've been a lot louder and meaner before. More of an argument, I think. And I haven't punched anyone yet," she added, earning a wider smile from him, one that made her warm in knowing that he smiled because of her.

"Hey," he smirked with no small amount of cheek. "The night's still young. Want me to go grab Aela for you?"

And then Lydia punched him. Not in the face, but it hurt like hell, he said, and she ribbed him for being a milkdrinker, among other less savoury names, for an entire hour, until they ran out of coin and Anoriath and Elrindir kicked them out for being too rowdy and knocking over an entire weapons rack and a table with food on it.

They left then, holding each other and snickering like children and sparing no thought or care for a group of hunters that gave them odd looks as they stepped outside.

Most people had abandoned the streets at that hour, and the guard was making his rounds putting out the streetlights, and it was cold and dark and the icy breeze tugged her hair and chilled her skin and fat flakes of snow were falling gently from above, landing on her face and in her eyelashes. And there were so many stars in the sky tonight, millions of them, and she turned to him, smiling, and she could see them all reflected in his eyes as he stared up at them.

And his eyes, those eyes she loved so much, they were wide and sparkling with warmth and mischief and wisdom and love, and she'd never seen anyone look at the stars quite like he did. He had always loved them, had always told her stories and pointed them out in the wide heavens with an almost childlike zest.

"Wow," he breathed, his breath rising into the frigid night air and causing the snow to dance around. "It's so beautiful."

"It is," she agreed, and he turned to look at her then, and her heart nearly froze. Not because of the starlight on his face, or the mischief in his grin, or the very simple fact that she thought he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen, but because he was looking at her the same way he had always looked at the stars.

She wanted to say something then, something meaningful or romantic or smart, something beautiful and lasting that would burn this particular moment in time right onto her brain, or at least onto the back of her eyelids so she could see it again and again, every time she closed her eyes. But nothing came out, and she stood there staring at him like an idiot.

He must have read her mind, because he smiled and leaned in closer, his arms wrapped around himself and shivering in the cold, and whispered, "I'm going to kiss you now."

And he did.

* * *

Lydia the Brave

* * *

"It didn't go well, I take it?"

Lydia frowned down at him. Well, not down, really, seeing as he was up a few steps on the small porch, but he was seated in a chair he'd dragged out here from beside the hearthfire, so their eyes were even, and why the fuck did she even care about this?

"No."

"Hm," he said, closing the book he was reading. "I thought so."

Lydia admired the way he loved to read. Maybe it was because of the simple fact that most Nords  _couldn't_  in the first place, or maybe it had something to do with the ways his eyes crinkled at the corners in concentration as he did. Either way, she found it endearing. She might have even told him so, but not today.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She thought about it for a moment, standing there in the street under the brilliant blue sky. Why couldn't the sky be grey to match her mood? Even better, it should have rained. She would have stood there, too, as it poured and soaked through her sweater and pants and as a lone streetlight shone its flickering light on her. It would have been more dramatic, more fitting. But of course it was beautiful out. Nothing seemed to be going her way.

"Not really."

"Alright," he said, setting the book down and standing up. He stepped down the stairs and took her in his arms in a long, warm hug, right there in the busy street, and she squeezed him back fiercely.

"I would have gone with you," he mumbled in her ear, rubbing circles on her back in a comforting way. "I could have been there."

"I needed to go on my own," she replied, eyes shut tight against the tears that wanted to spill. But she wouldn't let them, not for him. For Cato, of course, but not for  _him._ Her father.

The mere thought of the word left a bad taste in her mouth.

One of the Jarl's servants up in Dragonsreach had pulled Lydia aside the day they returned to review the Danica mission, a week or so after Cato had busted Lydia from jail, and the old woman had concerns about Hrongar, her father. She didn't say much, only mentioned he'd taken to locking himself in his quarters more often than not, and when he decided to crawl out of his hole he only skulked around with a bottle of rum in his wrinkled hands.

He'd never been much of a father to her or her brother, but the man hadn't picked up a drink after she'd turned eleven or twelve, a decade after their mother had died. Not even when the letter came home about her brother.

So she'd gone up to the Hall to see, to talk to him, maybe, or something. She didn't really have a plan, she just figured, maybe, that it would work itself out. It was a bad idea.

"Whatever he said, it's not true, Lydia. It's not your fault. Don't think it is."

"I know," she said, burying her face into his shoulder, taking deep breaths to calm her thrashing heart. He smelled good. Of course he did. He always did. Like soap, and wool, and  _Cato._  "I know."

Once the fury pulsing through her veins had ebbed away, the rage that had made her entire body tremble, there was nothing left. She wasn't even angry any more. She simply did not care. It was hollow. Cold. She didn't know if that was a good thing or not.

He held onto her a moment longer, and then she felt him smile.

"I have something for you," he said, pulling away just enough to place his hand on her cheek. "I think you'll like it."

She smiled a little despite herself. "I don't think I'll like anything right now."

"Oh, I think you'll like this."

He took her hand in his and led her up the stairs and into Breezehome.

Her smile widened. "What is this?"

He'd cleaned the place, to be sure, and she was grateful she didn't have to do it later, but that wasn't all. The kitchen table was set up will all the fanciest silverware they'd accumulated over the years, mismatched as they were, and two massive legs of elk sat steaming on two plates, surrounded by potatoes and leeks and a thick slice of bread. There was ale on the table, and some wine, and a sweetroll. It smelled amazing and looked even better.

She squeezed his hand. "Did you make this?"

"Of course I did," he said, squeezing back. She looked up at him, her eyebrows raised. "Alright, I didn't," he grinned. "I got it from the Mare."

"Of course you did," she smiled, and let herself be led to the table.

"Figured I'd probably burn the place down if I tried. I considered it, though, so you have to give me at least some credit. Here," he said, pulling out the chair for her.

"Very chivalrous."

"Yeah, I know. I  _am_  a hero."

She took a seat and a moment to look at the food. Yes, there was no way Cato could ever have made something like this, not with a hundred years practice and a lot more magic coursing through his veins. Perhaps it was best.

She took a sip of the ale –  _not_  ale, a thick golden mead – and it was wonderful. Sweet from the honey and minty from the juniper berries. It went down easily and warmed her from the inside out. She let it wash away the image of her father.

She glanced up to him.

"Why aren't you sitting down?"

"Because that's not all," he smirked, wiggling his eyebrows as he backed away, and she chuckled a little.

"Where are you going?" she called, setting her glass down. "What are you doing?"

"Hold on, hold on," he said, slipping into the side room off the kitchen, the place with all the shelves and barrels and dry foods. "I figured you'd like a little live entertainment while you feasted."

"What –?"

He came out of the pantry holding a grin on his face and a lute in his hands, laughing as Lydia laughed with him.

"What in the name of Tamriel is  _that?"_  she snickered, taking another swig of mead.

"A lute, my dear lady," he grinned, bowing sarcastically. "What else would it be?"

"Right. And you're going to play it?"

"Of course I am!"

"No you're not," she said, eyeing up the instrument. It was a beautiful thing, really, all polished carved wood and painted smoothly with crimson and gold. Two horn-shaped struts curled out and then back into the neck of the instrument, resembling the head and neck of a dragon. "You're going to strum a few strings and shatter the windows."

"Have a little faith, Lydia," he smiled, fiddling with the tuning keys like he knew what he was doing.

"Eight strings is eight too many for you."

"I'd say it's eight too few."

She rolled her eyes but could not stop from smiling a little. "Where'd you even get that?"

"From Mikeal," he said, strumming once, twice. "He was not too fond of my borrowing it for a little while. Well, probably, once he finds out."

"Mikeal? That womanising bard up in the Mare?"

"That's the one."

"You know, if you'd stolen it from anyone else I'd be a little more against it, but that man deserves it."

"Course he does," he smirked. "Plus, I figure he owes me for not punching his lights out after what he said to Carlotta that time."

He strummed the lute a few times, tweaked with the keys a little more, then moved to stand in front of Lydia, a little grin on his face. "You ready?"

She smiled a little, then nodded.

"Alright. This is something I wrote myself. It's a little tune I like to call  _Lydia the Brave._  It is in the key of major A sharp flat and it is sung to the tune of Skyrim's favourite bloody tale."

He strummed the instrument once more, then smirked, launching into the song.

_"_ _Oh, there once was a woman named Lydia the Brave_

_Who was born here in Whiterun and not some dark cave!"_

He coughed, clearing his throat, and glanced at Lydia. "Like it?"

He was strumming the strings randomly and his singing was completely off-key and it was clear there was not a single musical bone in his body.

"It's beautiful," she said, biting her lip.

_"_ _And the warrior did swagger and brandish her blade_

_As she told of bold battles and gold she had made!_

_But then she went quiet, did Lydia the Brave,_

_When she met the handsome and tall and dashing young Imperial Dragonborn who said:_

_'_ _Oh you talk and you talk and you talk a whole lot_

_But can you truly stand up to the Voice that I wrought?'_

_And so then came a clashing and slashing of steel_

_As the handsome and tall and dashing young Imperial Dragonborn charged in full of zeal!_

Ready? This is the best part:

_And the Dragonborn's ass took a beating with grace_

_As Lydia the Brave punched him right in the face!"_

Lydia laughed heartily, deeply, something she didn't realise she needed to do until the moment she did it, and she smiled wide, her eyes tearing up in delight. She wiped them away, laughing even more as he threw his head back and joined her. The sound of their roaring laughter filled the room as much as the smell of food did.

"You like it?" he laughed, setting the lute down so it leaned against the table.

She wiped more tears away, clutching her stomach. "I loved it," she wheezed, and she really wasn't lying. "Though I'm not sure if my stomach hurts from laughing or from how _terrible_  it was."

He stepped behind her chair and leaned over her, sliding his hand over her own, the one that rested on her stomach. "I knew you'd like it," he smiled, kissing her cheek and rubbing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb.

Lydia's stomach hurt a little less but it churned when his lips touched her cheek and she smiled, revelling in how close and warm he was, and how easy and natural this seemed to be. "It might have helped a little if the lute was in tune," she said, touching his jaw. "Or you could sing. Or if any of it rhymed at all."

"Hey," he said, "considering I spent all of three minutes rehearsing it, I thought I did pretty well."

"You're lucky I didn't eat before that, or it'd be all over the floor right now."

He smiled and stood up, squeezing her shoulder. "Well, don't eat just yet, because there's one last thing."

"Something  _else?"_  she asked, watching his back as he slipped something out of the bookshelf by the staircase. "Cato, you'll spoil me."

"Impossible," he grinned, walking back to her now with a hand-sized polished wood box. "You deserve more than this."

He handed her the box and his face simply glowed as he watched her open it.

The little necklace she saw at the market last week.

"Cato," she breathed, touching the shimmering silver circle with a fingertip. "It's –"

"It's nothing, Lydia, really. I know you told me not to get it, but, well, I didn't listen to you."

She smiled, running her fingers across the little designs, the brilliant sapphire in the centre. It really was beautiful, and her heart ached as something warm made its way up from deep within her and settled there.

"It's the same colour as your eyes," he said.

It was.

"No one's ever given me something like this before," she croaked, her throat suddenly tight. "Thank you."

"No," he smiled charmingly, taking her hand and guiding her out of her seat. "Thank  _you._ "

He took the box from her hand and set it down on the table, never taking his eyes off hers. "I meant what I said in the market, you know. You really are so beautiful, Lydia. I don't think I'll ever understand why you still hang around here, why you chose me. But I am so happy you did."

He kissed her knuckles. Lydia's stomach roiled into knots and it wasn't because of the ale.

He smirked and took a step closer, sliding his free hand round her waist. She placed the sweaty palm of her own hand on his chest, feeling his heart through his shirt, and it was more to steady herself than anything, really.

"You're sexy when you get all flustered like that," he said, moving a strand of hair from her face.

"You're kind of sexy too," she smiled, and leaned her head on his chest.

Lydia liked to believe she was strong, brave, impenetrable, like Skyrim itself, but sometimes she just needed someone to hold her. To tell her everything would be alright. Everybody needed that, she supposed. And that was okay.

It was okay to not be okay, sometimes.

Patience and potions and magic could heal wounds, mend the flesh, draw out the poison, but sometimes all the soul might need is a little music played terribly from a stolen lute and the smile of a man who killed dragons.

"You knew it wouldn't go well today," she said, voice muffled by his shirt.

"I did."

"But you let me go anyway."

"I did."

"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."

"You're welcome."

* * *

Home

* * *

"Lydia," he called down the stairs, "can you come here a moment?"

Lydia sighed and set Okin back down onto the weapons rack between his ebony blade and her Skyforge longsword. She wiped her hands with the cloth, turning the poor thing black with oil.

"Yeah," she said. "I'll be right there."

The straw roof of Breezehome muffled the storm, to her dismay, but the old windows let the icy wind drum loudly against them, rattling them in its ferocity, and she smiled as she set the dirty cleaning rag on the dowel. She loved being safe and warm and inside during a wicked storm, thankful she was here and not shivering in some tent. And what better way to spend such a miserable day than with her beloved axe? And Cato, of course.

The door to his room was open only a little but she knocked with a quick rap of her knuckles anyway.

"Come in," he replied, and she slipped through the crack. "You know, you don't need to do that anymore. It's your room now too."

"Habit, I guess," she said, closing the door behind her.

His room was dark from the storm and the time of day, and she could just barely make out anything here. He was in the chair by the small desk in the corner, a pile of open books and papers and scrolls scattered about beneath the light of a lone lamp. Anyone else might have thought he'd been deep into his research, but Lydia knew otherwise. His desk had always been that messy.

She smiled at his dark figure. "What do you want?"

_"'_ _What do I want?'"_ he said, rising from the chair. "Is it a crime to say hello?"

She could see him more clearly now. He was freshly scrubbed, freshly shaved, his dark hair still damp and clinging to his head, a rare thing indeed – normally it flicked up in odd places, an unruly mess that refused to stay flat.

And he was naked from the waist up.

"Normally, no, but in this situation I'd say yes."

"Relax," he smirked, taking a white shirt out from an open drawer and pulling it over his head. "I didn't call you up here to ask you to stare at my chest."

"Shame. What did you call me up for, then?"

He smoothed the shirt out across his stomach, pulling at the hem a bit. "I just wanted to let you know we'll be leaving soon."

Lydia's heart sunk. "Oh."

"Oh? That doesn't sound too enthusiastic."

"Because it's not."

"Why's that?"

"I don't know," she shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "I guess I've sort of enjoyed not doing a lot. Killing people and fighting dragons is tiring."

He smiled a little and pushed his chair in. "I would've figured you'd want to be back out there killing things. Sleeping on rocks and bathing in rivers. All that fun stuff."

"I'll admit I do miss sleeping on the ground," she smirked. "Your bed is terribly uncomfortable."

"Is it now? You're welcome to take yours back anytime you want."

"Don't tempt me. So, where are we going?"

"Riften. Just for a few weeks, a month at most. There's some things I need to deal with, some people I need to talk to."

Lydia straightened a little. "Riften? Cato, that can't mean anything legal, can it?"

A small frown formed on his face. "In Riften it is."

"Fine, don't tell me. I'd probably rather not know."

"Probably."

"That'll put us past the twenty-fifth. We'll still be there for the New Life Festival."

"Yeah. I figured we could spend it at the Bee and Barb, you know, catch up with some old friends there. Maven's still got Honeyside on lockdown after our little disagreement, though, so we'll have to get a room at the inn. We'll probably get going in a few days."

Lydia stood there looking at him a moment, biting her lip in thought.

"What?"

"You sure you're okay to go?" she asked, glancing down to his stomach. "It… doesn't still hurt, does it?"

"No," he shrugged. "I mean, well, I guess it's a little tender when I touch it, but no, it should be fine."

_"_ _Sure."_

He smiled a bit. "The look on your face says otherwise." He took a few steps so that he was in front of her now, and he touched her arm with the tips of his fingers. "I'll be fine, Lydia, really," he said, his touch causing goosebumps to raise on her skin. "Don't worry about me."

He smiled at her, such an attractive, endearing smile, and her chest tightened in response. There was a tension here, she could feel it, the air in the short space between them full of expectations, wants, desires. She could tell he felt it too. She saw it in his eyes, the way they lingered on her.

"Is that all you wanted?" she asked.

He hesitated for a second. "…Would you be angry if I said no?"

Lydia smiled. "I'd be angry if you said yes."

Then Cato's mouth was on her mouth, almost hungrily in its insistence, and his entire body crushed against hers. She stumbled back into the door, thankful she'd shut it earlier.

She ran her hands through his still-damp hair and smiled.

"You did that on purpose," she breathed.

"What?"

"Took your shirt off. You could have put it on before I came in."

"Maybe," he said a little sheepishly. "I can take it off again if you want."

Her smile was all the answer he needed. He pulled the shirt back over his head again and tossed it aside, leaving her to gaze upon his bare chest. Without his shirt on, she could feel the waves of heat rising from his skin, like a burning fire coal. She let her hand hover a few inches above his chest to test the theory out.

"You can touch me, you know," he said, smiling as he watched her.

"You're so hot."

"Thanks," he smirked.

"I meant your skin. I can never get over how hot it is."

"It's the dragons."

"I know." She finally made contact, smiling as he shivered at her cold touch. She traced her fingers along the scars that riddled his chest, old and new alike, and then they came to rest on the newest one, the one on his stomach, still pink and raw. He didn't flinch this time.

"Your turn," he said, voice gruff, and she snapped to as his warm fingers touched her stomach, tugging up the hem of her sweater. She let him.

And she let him take her hand and guide her to the bed where he sat down in the middle, smiling, and pulled her onto him. She smiled, straddling his lap, and he put his arms around her and smiled even wider, kissing her.

This was how they had spent their nights the last few weeks, though usually, Cato had been more tactful. He could usually coax her into lengthy sessions of kissing and touching, and they cuddled every night and she slept in his bed. But she didn't mind his brusqueness so much tonight.

His tongue teased her mouth and soon she had trouble catching her breath. Cato caught on and moved to leave a trail of kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, on her bare shoulder.

"You planned that too," she breathed, once enough air filled her lungs.

"Planned what?" he hummed.

"You taste like mint."

He only smiled as he kissed her neck.

She let her hands wander slowly over his back, his shoulders, his chest, and soon his did too, down her arms, her stomach, her waist, leaving a burning trail as they went. He was lean, strong, on fire, and she was softer, malleable, made of ice.

His hand drifted up her back and in one smooth motion he unclipped the clasp of the fabric that covered her breasts, and she felt him pull it away.

"You're getting good at that," she smiled, and then gasped as his warm hands replaced the fabric.

"I'll get better."

His hands worked smoothly, kneading and caressing, and he kissed her mouth, her jaw, her neck. His warm breath on her skin made her toes curl, and the hair on her arms rose every time the scruff on his face rubbed against her. She touched his chest too, her fingers following the contours of his muscles and scars

He must have tired from kissing her neck, because he slipped his hand to her cheek and lifted her face towards his. He looked at her through heavy-lidded eyes, but there burned a fire behind them so hot it nearly burned her. Lydia bent forward and kissed him. It was a slow, tender kiss, the kind that sent chills down her spine and heat into her cheeks.

Nearly the exact moment she thought it, Cato's rough hands slipped behind to the back of her neck and he gently rolled over, laying her down into the bed and furs below him without breaking the kiss.

Lydia's head spun dizzily and Cato touched her again, his fingers brushing along the swells of her chest and all she desired was to be nearer him. She pulled him closer until all their skin was touching, from her neck to her stomach, and he was warmer than any fire she'd ever been near. His skin was smooth and rough, flat and sloping, burning against hers.

She tightened her hold around his body, feeling the warmth pooling deep in the pit of her stomach as her desire grew. With a rare surge of bravery she seized his hand and pulled it down her body, his fingernails trailing her skin, guiding him south over her stomach, across her navel. He froze when he felt the hem of her pants.

"What are you doing?" he breathed, and she smiled at how ragged his breath sounded, how very unsure he was yet how  _very_ sure he wanted her to be.

"I believe you told me your wound has healed."

"Yeah?"

"So I will allow you to be a bit more physical."

_"_ _Allow_  me?" he smiled.

"Are you arguing?"

"No, ma'am."

With another smirk and a sharp intake of breath, his hand slipped into her trousers.

He touched her and stroked her, rubbed and caressed, his warm, rough hand moving back and forth, in and out, and Lydia had not felt something so  _good_ in such a long time. She might have even told him that, sometime in between her heavy breathing and incoherent mumbling, but she couldn't remember.

"Cato," she groaned, the heat permeating through her every cell, every corner of her body, spreading out like the roots of a tree.  _"Please…"_

The pressure was mounting and the friction was unbearable and his weight on top of her was nearly crushing, and then with one last searing kiss and a drive of his fingers, a blazing flash of white ripped across her eyes and every muscle in her body slackened, and she hadn't known she'd been so tense until that all happened.

"Did you enjoy that?" he whispered in her ear, and though she couldn't see it, she knew he was smirking.

"Mhm," she hummed with a blissful smile as he placed soft kisses on her bare shoulder and neck again. As pleasant and perfect being in his arms was, she could feel the unmistakeable bulge through his breeches pressing against her thigh.

Still pliant and content in her euphoria, there was nothing more she wanted then but to give that same feeling to her new lover.

"Come here," she breathed, and she rolled over to pin him beneath her, smiling at his wide eyes, and smiling even more as she returned the favour and his eyes slowly drew heavy and his breathing became erratic.

At some point before the end he said her name. Well, moaned it, really, or maybe growled would be a better word. Either way, it was the sexiest thing she'd ever seen or heard, and when he was done, and they lay beside each other, breathless and entirely intoxicated by everything, she told him that.

"Really?" he panted, a wide, foolish grin on his face.

She turned her head to look into his bright eyes, his beautiful eyes, and smiled back.

"Yeah."

He simply glowed with pride and warmth and bliss, his smile so wide the toothless gap was easy to see.

"You're not too bad yourself."

She smiled again and placed her hand on his cheek, feeling the rough stubble beneath her fingertips, the missing part of his ear under her thumb.

"You are _too_  charming," she chuckled, and he laughed along with her, the both of them still so high and weightless. He took her hand and squeezed it, then pulled her to him, tucking her into his side.

She lay there on his bare chest, listening to the sound of his heart. It was fast, erratic, beating so wild she could almost feel it against her cheek. She was not quite sure if that was because of her or the dragons.

"I was thinking about what you said the other night at the Drunken Huntsman," he said to the ceiling, not quite a whisper but quieter than normal, an intimate sort of tone. His words rumbled deep and Lydia felt them in her chest. "About this place, about Whiterun. I've been meaning to ask you for a while, and considering what happened with your father…"

"What is it?"

"I was thinking… I mean, well, I don't know," he said, unwrapping her gently to prop himself up on one elbow. "And it might be stupid, but –" and he looked down at her now, "do you want to leave?"

Lydia blinked up at him. "Leave?"

"Whiterun. Move somewhere else. Get away from here," he said, his smile soft. "I was thinking a change of scenery might be nice."

"Leave? As in, a different city?" she asked, shivering at his absence and pulling the furs over her bare chest. "In a different house? With  _you?_ "

"Yes," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. "With you."

She thought about it for a long moment.

Whiterun was the only home she'd ever known. He knew that. She'd walked the length of Skyrim times untold during her days as a soldier, and twice that many as Housecarl. She had seen the snow-capped mountains to the south, tasted the salty northern sea breeze, felt the sharp bite of the harsh western winds on her skin. But always she had come home.

Yet maybe home wasn't really a place, like she'd told him that snowy night at the Huntsman. Maybe it wasn't where you first came crying into this world, or where all your yesteryears were buried deep. Maybe, she thought, it was with people you loved.

"Okay," she whispered, and then, more confidently, "Okay. Let's leave."

He smiled wide and kissed her.

"Okay."

* * *

**A/N: EEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKK! That was sooo cute! I loved writing all these little stories!**

**How was that last part? Too much? Not enough? I can keep it Teen, if you want, or I can maybe be a bit more graphic and go Mature. Just let me know what you think. I'm probably being way too paranoid over this, but I'd hate for this story to be taken down over something like that, mostly because I don't have it saved all in one place. It would take fourteen years of archaeological work on my computer to sift through all the shit I've written.**

**The song Cato sings is, of course, based off of Ragnar the Red from in-game. He took it and replaced a few key words, but it has the same tune.**

**New Life Festival is synonymous with Christmas, and according to lore, all inns throughout Tamriel offer free alcohol all day and night. Can you imagine?**


	17. The Pictures He Paints

**A/N: Hello again! I could go on and on about my absence, but truthfully I've just been busy. Hope your Christmas and New Year's was spectacular, and here is my little (belated) holiday gift to you! This is a very short chapter, and kind of a bridge between this one and the next (which shouldn't be too long coming, hopefully!). Consider this a half-chapter sort of thing.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"Do you miss Cyrodiil?"

The question caught him off guard, to be sure, and she really hadn't even meant to ask it – it just sort of… _came out._ Maybe it was the silence or her empty stomach, maybe the throbbing of her legs after such a long walk through the deep snow, or – perhaps it was the ghosts in her mind – the feelings of her father, the memories of her brother, the longing for home – _whatever_ home – that made her think of Cato's, and the one he left behind.

She sat there with him, in the inky dark and the icy cold and in a deep winter silence so maddeningly resounding it almost hurt her ears.

He was silent for a long while and she began to think he hadn't even heard her. He poked the dying fire with a crooked stick and pulled his much-too-large fur coat closer. It was difficult to isolate the burning little embers from the tapestry of bright stars above as they twisted and crumbled to nothing.

Her father had told her a story, a long time ago, about the stars and where they came from. They were the spirits of men and women, brave Nord warriors who died in battle, and of children taken from this world much too soon. Pure spirits, bright ones puncturing a hole in the fabric separating this world from the next, permitting the mortals below a glimpse into the bright beyond. She'd always liked the idea, but now – now it seemed like hogwash. Cato had told her they were suns and moons and other worlds, so far away their light only reached here after millions of years, through the cosmos and immense vastness of space and time. Really, she thought, that story was rather more beautiful.

"Do I miss Cyrodiil?" he answered at last, but in the quiet it was almost too loud. It was a deep quiet, a heavy quiet, the kind felt after the death of a friend or the hush of a crowd. Or, in this case, the wilds of Skyrim sleeping under the snow. But yet Lydia was not afraid. "Honestly? Sometimes. I don't think about it much anymore. Only when I see an Imperial soldier or we visit Solitude."

"Or when you're whining about the cold and the snow."

"Yeah," he smirked, poking at the fire again. "That too."

"What was it like?" she asked, taking her mittened hand in his. "Where you lived, I mean?"

She knew this was hard for him, and she began to think it might be selfish on her part. The old Lydia might have apologised, might have said something else. But the old Lydia had died – when? She wasn't quite sure. And she found she did not care or miss her.

She squeezed his hand, and through the wool of both their mittens she could feel his heat.

"Warm," he smiled a little, the word itself like honey, or like the sun. "Warm and hilly. And more trees. The _trees,"_ he chuckled, "are what I miss most, I think. Huge beautiful ones with leaves that fall in autumn. Not like the pines here, with their poky little needles. The leaves were soft and turned red and orange and yellow at year's end, and they fell to the earth and covered everything. _Everything!"_ he said, smearing his other hand out in front of him across an invisible canvas, painting her the picture. "You'd see farmers out in the fields raking them up, before it got dark, and they covered the city streets, blowing around in the wind." He chuckled again, his eyes sparkling in the starlight. "One year, the leaves were so bad the Emperor ordered the city guards and the Watch to clean them up. We hated them, of course – they weren't very nice to kids – ah, like _me_. And just to fuck with them, we brought in more from outside the walls and they were furious! Gods, I swear, you've never lived until you've seen one of the palace guards chasing kids with a rake over his head! Stupid fuckers," he laughed, his voice loud and vibrant in the deep dark, and Lydia could not help but smile at the sound of it.

"I never really stayed in one place long, though," he continued, voice sobering a little. "Always leaving, always moving from city to city. Dirty places, they were. Full of crime and poverty. The rich eating off silver plates and the poor starving in the gutters. Not nearly as nice as the cities here. But… my _favourite_ place was always in the West Weald, in the forests and fields there. The grass was tall as a man and always green, _so_ green, and the maples there were red and towered over the roads. And there were fields and fields of grapes, Lydia," he laughed, his eyes shining with long-buried memory. "Vineyards far as you could see. You could walk for _three days_ , I'm not kidding, and _still_ be in the same field. Can't tell you how many times I got sick off the grapes I stole."

"Sounds wonderful," she smiled, abstract flashes of where he came from flickering through her mind like the fire before them. She liked hearing these stories, these rare little glimpses into the life he had before he found her – or she found him. The pictures he painted with his words were more beautiful than any she'd seen hung on a wall or in the pages of a book. "I'd love to see it one day."

"Yeah," he said, slowly returning to the now – the fire by the roadside under an old twisted pine halfway to Riften. Skyrim, not Cyrodiil. "It's… something."

"You ever think you'll go back?"

He frowned in thought for a moment. "No. I mean – well, it's hard to say, isn't it? Probably not. I'd miss all the snow," he turned to her with a roguish sort of smirk.

As if to accentuate his words, a bitter gale blew across the dirt road and bit them to the bone, trembling the hide walls of their tent and sending grey ashes from the fire.

Cato shivered violently, shutting his eyes tight.

If anything could bring them back down, it was that friendly little reminder.

"Speaking of," he muttered, squinting out at Lydia, "it's really cold out."

She stared into the dying fire, flickering and struggling against its inevitable death.

"Thank you for sharing that with me," she said, squeezing his hand again and leaning her head on his shoulder. "I know that was hard. And I know nothing about your past. And I want you to know – that's okay. Whatever you did before you came here doesn't matter anymore. What matters is what you're doing now."

"Kicking ass and slaying dragons like a fucking hero?"

Lydia sighed but she could not keep the smile off her face. "You always knew exactly how to ruin a moment."

"It's one of my many skills, so I've been told."

"Well they were right, whoever they were. Send them my regards."

"Hey, now. You'll hurt my feelings."

"You know, I'm here, Cato, if you ever want to talk."

The last flame licked at the charred wood and died.

"I know," he said. "Thank you."

He kissed her. Not softly or with grace. He grabbed her shoulder and her hair and kissed her as if he was trying to say something and words just wouldn't work. She kissed him back, pulling him close as physically possibly, one hand on his leg, the other on his burning, burning face. The air around them slipped from the earnest conversation of trusted friends into the heady magnetic slur of two young people who happened to think the other was, quite possibly, the sexiest being they'd ever met. Or so Cato had said once. Probably.

There were too many layers of clothing between them, she thought, and she almost voiced her concerns before another sharp wind tore across the road and swished the grasses at the shoulder, and the Dragonborn shivered pathetically, making his Housecarl – and his colleague, his companion, his lover, his friend – smile at the irony of it all.

"Fuck!" Cato growled as he recoiled from her, almost angry at the weather for ruining the moment. "It's fucking _cold."_

"It is," she smiled coyly, earning a raised eyebrow from the man. "Maybe we should go inside and –" she paused, solely for dramatic effect, and squeezed his knee suggestively "– keep each other warm?"

It worked like a fucking charm. The look in his eye, the smile she put on his face made something deep inside of her stir.

"Maybe I should freeze my ass off more often," he chuckled, standing and offering her a hand.

She took it, smiling for a million reasons, or maybe just one. Fuck if she knew. What did she know any more? "Maybe you should shut up before I change my mind."

"Shutting up," he smirked, following her into the tent.


	18. The City of Thieves

**A/N: Hello again everybody! I am back! This is monumental, this is so very very exciting for me – I HAVE CONQUERED MY WRITERS BLOCK AT LAST! I am sure you know, seeing as I disappeared off the face of the internet – _again_ – but I was having such a terrible time, struggling so hard against the colossal wall that was my biggest case of dreaded Writer's Block yet.**

**I sat down and took a long hard look at where I want this story to go. I know, now. And so I think I'll be able to write better, and faster, and update more frequently.**

**This chapter takes place in Riften over maybe two weeks. I am so bad at writing continuous chapter. Oops! I apologise. This chapter was actually twice as long. It's cut in two, again, and the other half is already written. Expect it within the next week or so.**

**I thought Lydia needed a friend, and I thought this story needed more characters. Enter Kharjo, my second-favourite companion in Skyrim. He is so funny and badass and I just adore him. Hope you enjoy him here!**

**Also, I upped the rating to M. So yeah, I guess you can expect a little more _explicit_ writing. You animals.**

**I must thank you all for sticking with me this long. I apologise for the super long wait. I gift you with this chapter. If you enjoy it, leave a review and let me know. It always makes me warm and fuzzy inside, and I'll (probably) reply back.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_Housecarl and Hold Guard Lydia Battleborn,_

_It has come to my attention, and indeed the attention of many, that you are engaged in a close relationship with the Thane of Whiterun and have been for some time. While there is nothing inherently wrong with this statement, the degree of your affiliation is of some concern. Several reports have been filed against you claiming you and Cato Vitellas are involved in something of a personal relationship in addition to your professional one. Public displays and frequent sightings have proven such rumours true._

_You are a highly respected member of the Guard and I uphold the notion not to become involved in the personal affairs of my affiliates. Therefore, I would deem it redundant to recall the decorum against such fraternisations as being unprofessional and reflecting poorly on the ideals of Whiterun, and indeed Skyrim, as a whole._

_I hope you will be able to understand, and I look forward to many years of your continued service to Hold and Country._

\- _Jarl Balgruuf the Greater_

Lydia clenched her jaw and crushed the wrinkled letter in her hand, her knuckles turning white with the force of it.

It was a chill day, the sky a clouded muffled grey that gave no indication of the time, and a thin mist blew in from off the lake, landing coolly on Lydia's cheek and whipping her cloak round her feet, but it was quiet. It was Sundas, after all, and the fishermen were all home, their barges and rafts tethered to the barnacled posts of the dockyard. The ashen water lapped harshly at the wooden wharf, its deep waters cold and uninviting, and save for the occasional fly-bitten gull, she was utterly alone.

And that was the way she wanted it to be.

Riften's Plankside was well-known for transactions of the… less than willing or savoury type. Hooded figures had watched her from the shadows as she made her way here, cunning eyes and crooked smiles on the rickety boardwalks slick with algae and dreg. Thieves and cutthroats prowled the lower docks, their calloused hands filthy with crime, and yet not one had dared to stop her as she'd stormed through on her way to the wharf.

That poor courier. Lydia doubted she'd ever seen a man look so terrified of being ripped in half. She would not be surprised if he quit and took up farming.

Lydia had read and read and reread the letter for what felt like a million times, here on the docks, and every time she did it only made her angrier. She gazed down into the icy depths, garbage and old netting floating on the surface, and she had the overwhelming urge to throw it in and never think of it again. She could forget it. Cato would never have to know.

There were no rules against _fraternisations_ with Thanes. There never had been. Not really. It wasn't encouraged, but it was never outright banned. And the more she thought about it, the more she recognised the letter had nothing to do with that at all.

Lydia had always liked the Jarl but she had only just realised how big of a _coward_ he really was. He was afraid of Ulfric Stormcloak. Afraid of the Empire. Afraid that if the Thane's Housecarl were to be seen with the _enemy,_ it might mean he'd chosen a side in the war.

_More so than his choice of Thane in the first place?_

Lydia found she was getting rather sick of all the fucking Imperial racist bullshit.

She should have seen this coming, she supposed. Her kind were too brainless, too narrow-minded, _too fucking petty_ to think past their own thick skulls, to see past the pale skin, the fair hair of their own race.

She should have known the world would try to tear them apart. She _did_ know. And Cato knew it too. He had warned her. Every time something good came her way, someone always wrenched it right out from under her, ripped it from her hands.

Lydia clutched at the railings until her knuckles hurt and bits of wood dug under her fingernails.

_Not this time._

She took a deep breath as she gazed out at the seemingly endless lake, attempting to steady her furiously thrashing heart. It smelled of stagnant water and oil and rotting fish. The smell of lies and slander and apathy and thieves.

She hated this place. She hated Whiterun. She hated the Jarl, the Nords, Aela, everyone who'd ever said or thought anything bad about Cato, because he was more than ten times the man they'd ever be.

 _I thought those things once too,_ a tiny voice in her head piped up, and she let out a shaky, frustrated sigh.

"Fuck me," she groaned in defeat, putting her head in her hands.

"This one's afraid he –"

Lydia squeaked and jolted and then before she really knew what had happened, her fist jerked and connected swiftly with a face – someone's face – and the head snapped back with a sharp cry of pain.

A Khajiit. Tall and muscular and well-dressed – no cloak, no hood, no black. Not a thief, then, nor her would-be assassin.

The Khajiit hissed in pain and held a hand – or a paw? – against his bleeding nose to little avail. He glared at Lydia accusingly.

"You hit us!"

"Who the _fuck_ are you?" she growled, fist still raised in a warning. He may belong on these docks as much as she did, but he was still a _cat,_ and she did not trust him an ounce. "I'll fight you! I'm not afraid!"

The cat seemed to turn all his attention to his face, the red coming from his nose and staining his fur, and he frowned at the hand covered in blood.

 _"Perfect,"_ he hissed, gravelly voice almost like the sound of sand running through fingers. "Just _perfect._ Do you know how difficult it is to remove blood stains from clothing?" He tugged at his expensive-looking white and gold tunic, now spattered red with blood. "What will Ahkari say to this one now?"

Lydia took a step forward, fists still raised. "I said _who are you?"_

Lydia took a step forward, fists still raised. "I said _who are you?"_

The Khajiit frowned down at her, ears pinned back in irritation, whiskers twitching. "Tsk tsk," he purred, defeatedly wiping the blood off his hands onto his abandoned tunic. "Is that such a way to greet a friend? Blood and hurtful words?"

Lydia glared at him. _"Friend?"_ The words _Khajiit_ and _friend_ had never been spoken in the same sentence before, not in her lifetime. Maybe with the word _'not'_ somewhere between.

The Khajiit cracked a sudden grin and took a step closer, so close – a little _too_ close maybe – that Lydia could see every spot, every gradation in colour on his grey and white fur, could count the shiny gold earrings in his pointed ears – five on one, four on the other – could smell his hot breath, and whatever clung to his tunic – the rusty tang of blood, of course, and something… sweet?

"Ah, yes, we must apologise," he said, wiping at his nose with his hand. "It has been some time since last we met. Perhaps you do not remember this one." The Khajiit put his bloody hand on his ruined tunic, over his chest, and smiled a little, showing his sharp white teeth streaked pink with blood. "This one is called Kharjo by his friends and family, and less delicate things by most everyone else. You and your Dragonborn retrieved my mother's moon amulet some time ago, and for that, Khajiit is grateful, and he calls you friend." The Khajiit smiled again, offering his hand.

"Oh. Right," she said, as if everything he said made any sense at all. But you know, Lydia wasn't really surprised. This was Riften, after all. Stranger things had happened.

But she did remember him. He was a warrior, a caravan guard they'd met near Dawnstar more than a year ago. At the time she'd been inclined to forget the beast's amulet but Cato insisted.

 _"You should always be on the good side of the Khajiit,"_ he'd said then, in a way that once suggested he might not have been. _"Or have very strong locks."_

She hesitated for a moment before lowering her guard and her fists, eyeing his outstretched hand.

"Oh," the cat chuckled, switching his bloody hand for the clean one. "Of course."

She eyed him another moment before tentatively taking his hand in hers.

She'd never touched a Khajiit before, not in any friendly way, and she would be lying if she said the way his hand looked and felt wasn't the most fascinating thing. It was soft, covered in grey and white fur, with all five digits and fingernails – a little damp from the misty air, and a little calloused from holding a weapon, but it was surprisingly… _human._ She didn't know what to expect, really. Maybe the paw of a cat.

"Lydia," she said, in the case he might have forgotten her name over time. She let go and the Khajiit man nodded, his earrings jingling together.

"This is pleasant," he purred contentedly, gazing out over the vast grey lake. "Conversing with one who does not wish to make you into a rug. So many refuse to talk to us. They call us thieves and smugglers. Kharjo is glad to see you are not such a one."

"Yeah," Lydia huffed dryly, staring down into the dark water below. "I have a bad habit of talking to people I shouldn't be."

The Khajiit's head tilted to the side as he leaned against the railing, his ears pricked, his smile soft. "Do you wish to talk? Kharjo is good listener."

She almost considered it, for a moment. Kharjo seemed well-meaning enough, for a cat, at least, but Lydia had never had any positive experience with Khajiit in the past. And this was Riften. She'd resolved long ago to take everything here, and everyone, with a grain of salt.

She picked at the railing absentmindedly. "No."

"Ah. So secretive," he smirked, yellow eyes crinkling. "As you wish."

Lydia turned to him and frowned. "Listen –?"

"Kharjo".

"Right. I don't mean to be rude, but I'd rather be alone right now." She hesitated, then pushed herself away from the railing. "I was just leaving, actually."

"Of course, of course," the Khajiit purred offhandedly, eyes on the churning lake once more. Something in his voice gave Lydia pause, made her twist halfway round. She eyed him warily. "One must do what one must, you know, to forget his past. Some leave, some stay. Some take ship or wander far from home in search of answers. And _still,"_ he cooed, his cat-like grin widening as he spun round to her now, "some prefer to drink."

The Khajiit man whisked out a small black flask from seemingly nowhere and twisted the cap off with nimble fingers. He took a small sip and smiled wider, eyeing her playfully.

Lydia turned round fully, the damp letter still tight in her fist as she attempted to conceal her shock.

"Is that Skooma?" she asked, eyes wide.

"It is. Would you like some?" He offered her the flask and she eyed it with caution.

It could be poison. It could be a sleeping draught. It could be the fountain of youth, she supposed. Who was she to judge?

"If this one wished to kill you," he smiled, "he would have done so already."

Kharjo shook it, its contents swishing against the cold metal, prompting her to take it. She did, cautiously, the cool jet black of onyx smooth under her fingers, and stepped back up beside him.

Lydia sniffed at the drink. It smelled sweet, almost like honey, but too sweet. It smelled like his shirt, like his breath. Like a Khajiit.

She looked him in his shining yellow eyes. "This is illegal."

"This is Riften."

She couldn't argue with that.

She shrugged – what did she have to lose? – and took a mouthful and – _surprisingly_ didn't vomit. She did cough, though, causing her new companion to laugh and thump her on the back.

"See? You did not die, friend! How was it?"

It wasn't all that bad, really. Maybe too sweet for a Nord, but Khajiit were famous for their sweet tooth. It was thicker than ale, less viscous than honey, maybe somewhere in between – almost like a watered-down syrup. Made from nightshade and moon sugar, native to Kharjo's Elsweyr.

Lydia cleared her throat, eyeing the flask with only a little contempt. "I've had better. I've had worse."

Kharjo laughed, his voice a strange blend of smooth and gravelly at once. "You are one brave soul, friend! Not many a Nord has Kharjo met that can handle Khajiit Skooma. Not even the Dunmer!"

She wasn't sure that was a good thing, really.

She leaned against the rail, gazing out at the lake, holding a bottle of Skooma in her hand with a Khajiit beside her. She would have laughed at that, maybe, if not for the letter still clutched in her fist. She hesitated a moment, thinking again how easy it would be to simply toss the thing into the churning water below – how easy it would be to toss _herself_ in, perhaps, and rid her of her misery. It would be so simple. No one would ever know.

 _Body found floating by the docks._ It was hardly unheard of here.

So why didn't she?

 _Cato,_ the little voice piped again. _It's because of Cato. It always was._

_And perhaps this Khajiit. They do have impeccable timing._

She shoved the letter into her cloak pocket and sighed.

"So how'd you get in here, anyways?" she asked, handing the flask back to him. "I thought Khajiit weren't allowed in the cities. Aren't you worried you'll be caught?"

"Caught? No, no, no!" he said, looking almost offended. "Kharjo thinks it would be very easy to hide in this city, you know. Riften – the boards, the shipyard, the dark alleyways – this place reeks of thieves and lies. He thinks corruption runs through its veins as the sewers that run beneath it."

Lydia didn't think she'd ever heard a more apt description of the place.

"True. Maven Black-Briar well-nigh owns the city," she said, the thought of the woman's pinched face making her frown a little. "And the Thieves Guild is said to live beneath it." She wiped the mist from her cheeks with the back of her hand as she watched the Khajiit take another long drink of Skooma. "But that still doesn't explain how you got in."

He smiled at her, a smile surely tinted with secrets, one she'd only ever seen on the cat-people.

"You are correct – us noble Khajiit are barred, sadly, from visiting your beautiful cities. You are also foolish for believing there is only one way into this place," he smirked. "And – I am a cat. I do _as_ I please, _when_ I please."

"Is that right?"

The man hesitated a moment. "Kharjo climbed the walls."

Lydia chuckled. "I didn't think you'd be one to come through the Ratway."

"And what does that mean?"

"Well, for one, you don't _smell_ like the Ratway."

Kharjo trembled at the thought. "We have been down there once before. It is stale and damp and the air is choking. Much too dark for him."

"I thought Khajiits could see in the dark?"

"Bah – this again!" Kharjo huffed, throwing a hand in the air and startling a few nearby gulls into flight. His earrings clinked and shimmered despite the grey skies, his teeth glinting through his sneer. "We think you men-folk will never learn! This one thinks your kind can stand in the cold and not freeze, no?" He put a finger to Lydia's chest before removing it and pointing in the general direction of the Bee and Barb. "And Kharjo spoke to one of those lizards at the inn who told him they are able to breathe under water." He crossing his arms, frowning at her. "Just because one is able to, does not mean they enjoy it."

Lydia could not help but smile a little through Kharjo's lecture. _"Are_ you afraid of the dark?"

"Certainly not!"

"I think you are," she smirked grimly.

"Incorrect. Khajiit is cat," he said, frowning down at her, his whiskers twitching in irritation. "Cat does what it wants – no one tells a cat what to do. And cat is afraid of nothing." He hesitated, glaring out at the roiling water below. "…except dogs and large bodies of water."

Lydia laughed aloud, a harsh sort of bark much to Kharjo's chagrin and her own surprise. But he smiled nonetheless.

"Kharjo climbed the wall because he wished to see the City of Thieves," he continued, handing Lydia the flask again. "Ahkari's caravan was passing by, camped outside the walls. There is no such place as this in my homeland, not anymore. And this one has heard the stories. We merely wished to see if they were true."

Lydia wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and swallowed roughly. The drink was getting to her now, what little she'd had, and it was making the edges of the world just a little blurry, her insides a little warm. She could scarcely feel the chill mist on her skin. "And are they?"

"So far? Yes." He half turned to glance round the decaying dockyard, the decrepit planks of the foul-smelling fishery, the pearly glow of the grimy lone lamplight casting a pool of cold light upon the mildewed boardwalk behind them. The sounds of creaking old wood and water against stone, and the harsh cry of underfed gulls. He turned his nose up at all of it. "Kharjo can say with certainty that this is indeed the City of Thieves. And all that comes with it."

As if on cue, a low rumbling came from beyond the lake, rolling angry dark clouds towards Riften, and a bitter wind blew across the rippled surface, whipping Lydia's hair and cloak round her. Kharjo squinted and shivered, glaring up at the sky.

"Including such foul weather, the likes of which Khajiit does not cherish." He turned to her, arms wrapped round his thin blood-stained tunic, and in that instant he reminded Lydia so much of Cato that she almost said it aloud. "Kharjo wishes you good fortune on your journey, friend. Wherever it may lead."

He tilted his head to the side, studying her a moment, his ears flicking in thought. "He thinks we will meet again. He will not say farewell. But he will forgive you for making him bleed, even if Ahkari scolds him," he chuckled, wiping at his nose again.

He held out his hand, and she took it with a little more zeal than last time. "So until next time. And may your road lead you to warm sands."

He turned and walked away down the boardwalk, his long tail swinging lazily behind him. Past the old lamp, round a bend, and he was gone.

She thought about him all that day and into the night, and the rest of that week as well.

* * *

In a cramped room on the top floor of the Bee and Barb, in the frail light of a winter sunrise, Lydia lay awake and on her side staring at a crack in the wall when Cato awoke beside her, his weight on the bed shifting as he rolled over.

Rustling the furs and slipping up behind her, he gently nuzzled the back of her neck with his nose, arm quietly sliding round her waist.

"Hey Lyds," he whispered, voice quiet and raspy, and she moved to intertwine her fingers with his, just next to her waist. "Morning."

"Morning," she said, unable to stop from smiling as he kissed the back of her neck, making her hair stand on end. His whole body against hers, the heat of his chest on her back, the feeling of his hand in her hand – little moments like this could almost make her forget where she was, what was happening in their lives. "You came back late last night. I was already asleep."

"Yeah," he mumbled, his breath hot against her skin. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Is everything… fine?"

She really didn't expect him to answer her. He'd been avoiding talking about whatever it was he was doing here in Riften – always changing the subject, skirting her questions. _A few jobs,_ is all he said. _Boring little ones. You wouldn't like them._

In all honesty, she didn't really want to know. As long as it was safe, as long as he came back to her, she didn't care. He was allowed to have his secrets. He was the Dragonborn, after all.

"Yeah. Everything's fine," he murmured, kissing her neck again. "Don't worry about me."

"But I do, you know."

"I know."

"Cato –" she began in protest, but her breath hitched in her throat as his warm hand slipped from her waist and ghosted across her hip, down her thighs, over the front of her smalls.

"Yeah?" he breathed hot against her neck, and though she couldn't see him, she knew he was smirking. The bastard.

"Doing that won't make me shut up," she said, smiling a little, her hips pressing into his touch.

"I know. But you can't blame me for trying."

"Stay here with me," she whispered. "Don't leave today."

She heard his sigh, the barely concealed torn groan. He moved his hand away, moved his body away, turned to lay on his back and face the ceiling.

"I'm sorry, Lyds. I can't."

She turned as well, flipped so she was on her other side, facing him. His hair was ruffled from sleep, flicking up in odd places, exposing his damaged ear. His stubble was longer than normal, his eyes dark-rimmed and tired-looking, a new bruise turning the skin round his jaw a dark purple. Whatever he was doing was slowly killing him, wearing him down.

"Why not?"

"I have… things to do. I'm sorry."

"What things?"

"Just another job. For the Companions."

"Can I come?"

He blew out a rush of air before rubbing at his eyes tiredly.

She already knew the answer.

"Did you even sleep last night?" she asked, placing her hand softly on his cheek. He turned to her, smiling a little.

"Yeah."

"Doesn't look like it."

He shrugged.

"You should try."

"Yeah."

"You know," she said coyly, rubbing his cheek with her thumb, feeling his rough stubble, the scar above his lip. "It's cold at night when you're gone. And lonely."

Cato raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

"Mhm."

She slid her hand from his cheek down his throat, over his chest to his stomach, purposefully slowly, watching him watch her with a cheeky smile. Under his waistband, across his too-warm skin, and she touched him, enjoying the little squirm he did, the little smile he gave her.

"You drive a hard bargain, Lydia," he groaned low, the sound of his voice making her insides quiver. "I have to go though."

She paused, her hand around him. "Really?"

"Mm. Yeah. Sorry."

"Are you _sure?"_ she asked, squeezing a little.

His breath hitched sharply and he moaned a little, and she smiled. She had him.

"Yeah."

Maybe not.

She let go with a frown.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, a genuine torn look marring his usually smiling face _. "Believe me_ when I say that."

She sighed. It was of no use. "When will you be back?"

"I don't know. Tonight, maybe. Earlier if I can. I intend to pick up where we left off, just so you know," he whispered, his warm fingers brushing her stomach.

He smiled again, leaning over to place a soft kiss on her lips. Her free hand reached forward to cradle his bruised jaw, thumb rubbing over the stubble on his face again.

"I miss you," he breathed into the kiss. "I _am_ sorry."

He leaned back from her, tired eyes shining with longing and apology, and held her hand against his face with his own.

"And I, you," Lydia said, squeezing his hand. "Be safe."

He left the bed and she watched him get dressed, shamelessly whistling when she saw his bare ass. They bantered a little, Lydia trying to make light of the situation, all the while relishing in what little time they had and dreading when he would leave.

And then he did leave, taking nothing but a coin purse, a flask of water, his little ebony dagger, and one last kiss from Lydia.

And then she was alone again.

She sat up on the edge of the creaky bed they both shared, staring into the ashen fireplace on the opposite wall. The sun had now just barely risen over the city walls and it bathed the entire room in deep orange. A gentle breeze tugged at the windows, rattled a pine branch softly against the glass.

She rubbed at her eyes, letting out a long, deep breath.

She hadn't told Cato about the letter. Not yet. No, she'd kept it away in her breast pocket, and it burned a hole through it every time she thought of it. She hadn't known what to say, how to bring it up.

How do you tell someone something like that?

Not like it mattered anyway – he barely came round anymore, coming back to their rented room later and later, leaving earlier every morning. Sometimes a day or two would go by without so much as a glimpse of the man. She missed him – his smile, his smell, his touch.

She hated it. Hated watching Cato's eyes grow more tired, his hair and beard longer and unkempt. Hated feeling him slip in bed beside her much too late at night, and not feeling his hands on her – in a friendly way or otherwise.

And it hurt. Did he not trust her enough?

She tried to tell herself it didn't matter, that she didn't care. But the truth was she _did._

He had gone on small errands without her before, and that was fine. But that was also Whiterun. This was Riften. Nothing good ever happened here. It wasn't so bad that she worried.

Was it?

She was as good at lying to herself as she was at entertaining herself, and in the week they'd already been here, the small bookshelf in the room had been all but read, her armour polished so clean she could see her reflection, her weapons whetted and practiced with and whetted again and _sitting on the dresser not being used._ She knew the layout of the old city well, almost as well as any citizen, and she'd soon tired of the busy market and the bustling, smelly harbour and the meadery and the chapel and the inn. She couldn't even take Worthy out for a ride – Cato was using him to get to wherever he was going, doing whatever he was doing.

She began to wonder why he even asked her to come along with him.

She felt so alone.

…and you know, she hadn't been searching for him. Not really. She just sort of… _found_ him again, on the docks, where they'd met the first time.

"Ah, my friend!" Kharjo called out, a wide grin on his face. He stood up from the rickety wooden stool he was sitting on and opened his arms wide in a friendly greeting, again scaring off a few gulls. "Kharjo knew we would meet again! Come, come sit with him. He has another seat here for you. Where is it…" he murmured, and Lydia could not help but crack a smile as she watched him search around the old netting and crab traps and piles of damp, rotted lumber.

"Ah! Here it is." He unfolded the stool and set it beside his own. She took a seat by the cat, shielding her eyes from the bright sun above. The storm had passed, and with it all the cold and wind and mist. It was almost _peaceful_ out here, if one could call the teeming shipyard, with its throngs of shouting sailors and ringing bells and hauling cargo peaceful.

It was odd, really. Skyrim was a cold, hard land, full of ice and rocks and snow. But here, in the south – it was cold, yes, but warm enough for one to almost believe they were in Cyrodiil. There was no ice on the lake, no snow on the ground. Riften had always reminded her of the country to the south. Of Cato's country.

"So," the Khajiit said once he was settled, folding his hands on his lap. "What have we been doing? Where has your road led you since last we spoke?"

"Not a lot," she sighed, watching a gull circle above the still water on the lake. "And not far."

"Ah. We see. Sometimes the shortest path can be the longest journey, though. Do we not agree?"

She turned to face him, and he was smiling softly at her. She still couldn't tell what he wanted, what his game was.

Did he even have one?

Maybe he was alright. Maybe he really did think of her as a friend.

"Yeah," she smiled a little. "I guess so."

Something caught her eye, and she grinned wider, pointing to the fishing pole leaning against the railing. "Are you fishing?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. Yes, we almost forgot." He leaned over and tugged at the pole, checking to see if anything had been caught. "Nothing," he said, but he didn't seem too disappointed. "Kharjo has never been a good fisherman. The only thing he has caught today is weeds and old fish nets. Although," he smirked, leaning closer so only Lydia could hear, "if we are being truthful then Kharjo must tell you there is nothing on the end of this line."

"What?" she smiled.

"Kharjo enjoys the docks but the fishermen do not enjoy Kharjo. They think he is – hm, what was the word – _skulking._ A cat near fish can only mean trouble, they say. And so Kharjo must look like he is not _skulking."_

Lydia chuckled. "You know, you _could_ put something on the end and see if anything happens while you're at it."

He waved her off, making his earrings jingle. "Bah. Sounds like too much trouble."

"More trouble than climbing the walls?"

"Of course! Climbing was easy," he smirked, flexing his claws. "Cat, remember?"

Lydia smiled.

"Kharjo does not like worms – they are slimy and cold. And he has no money to purchase minnows from the sailors. Not enough for minnows, anyway."

"The dark _and_ worms?" Lydia joked. "Kharjo, you poor, poor man. Riften is _not_ the place for you."

The Khajiit narrowed his eyes at her. "Har har," he said dryly. "You make this one wet himself with laughter."

Lydia laughed.

"You naked folk sure do like your walls, though, Kharjo will say that."

Everything this cat said was gold. Lydia could not stop from smiling.

"Naked folk? You mean Nords?"

"Ah, _Nords,"_ he purred, leaning back casually against the railing behind. "Yes, Nords. Nords, Nords, Nords. _Ice Men of the North_. You know, friend," he said, glancing her way, "Kharjo does not hate the Nords. They are strong and fierce and loyal – everything Khajiit admire. But they do not feel the same of us."

Lydia frowned a little, everything not quite so funny all of a sudden, and she looked out over the lake.

A few small dinghies bobbed around the lakeshore miles off, the men inside tiny pinpricks from here. Some larger boats were deeper out on the lake, their massive nets dragging in the cold depths behind them. A colossal barge was anchored at the fishery, sweating men cursing and hauling wooden crates of dried fish on board to be shipped out to Morrowind or High Rock.

"But Kharjo likes you," he continued, and she looked over at him. He was watching her intently, his yellow eyes on hers the way a cat might watch a fish, but maybe… closer? "What little he knows of you he likes. You are stout and clever and full of honour and you are first to speak to him as a man, not a beast. He thanks you for that."

He nodded, glancing out over the lake, eyes scanning the far horizon. "Skyrim is a cold and lonely land, far from the warm sands of home, and this one has few friends. Life on the road is lonely, and Ahkari dislikes his hobbies of talking and drinking – _and fishing,"_ he added loudly, smiling, just in case anyone was listening. "So again, Kharjo thanks you."

Lydia didn't know what to say. No one had ever been quite so forthcoming, so honest with her before – and that was why, perhaps, she had no strong love of others.

Dragons were easy. They only tried to eat her. People were harder – sometimes they pretended to be her friend first.

She was really beginning to like this Khajiit.

"It is the Nords," he continued, relaxing back on his little seat. "They do not like outsiders in their land, and so we are forbidden to enter their cities. When they look upon us, they see only pickpockets and Skooma dealers."

Lydia smiled a little. _"Are_ you a pickpocket or Skooma dealer?"

Kharjo smiled back. "This one thought we were keeping secrets, no? But no. Kharjo speaks with jest. He works hard hours under the hot sun and walks many miles from home. He has killed many men in his life, but never for sport. And he has done many bad things in his time, but he has never stolen."

The Khajiit glanced over to her, then scratched at a spot on his nose absentmindedly. "Bah, but we must apologise. You did not come to hear Kharjo's life story."

Lydia frowned a little as she watched him. Had anyone, _anyone_ ever given him the time of day? More than a passing glance, a disgusted frown? She very much doubted so.

Maybe it was time someone _did._

She smiled again. "You know any games to pass the time?"

He smiled back at her, his teeth bright and sharp but not menacing – they were friendly. "Kharjo is cat, you must remember. We are excellent at playing games."

She didn't doubt that.

* * *

There'd always been something about the way a person sleeps, oblivious to the world and all their troubles and sorrows and pains, that forever captivated Lydia.

She watched Cato sleep, the cold grey light of dawn filtering through the lone window, and thought about all they'd been through. The things they'd done and seen and all the places they'd been. The time they got lost in the Dwemer ruins. The time she almost got trampled by a giant. The time she'd carried his body deep out of the cultist ruins. His face had been ghostly pale, covered in blood. She would never forget it.

But now his face was smooth, free of worry, free of hurt. There were no wrinkles around his eyes – they were new, and borne of worry and burden. There was no fear nor weariness in his eyes – those were new, too.

He stirred, face crinkling, shattering all that.

"I met a Khajiit the other day," Lydia whispered, only when she was certain he had finally woken up.

"Yeah?" Cato mumbled, yawning wide.

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And nothing, really. We met on the docks and drank Skooma together and he gave me life advice."

Cato rolled on his side, their faces not four inches from one another, peering at her through tired eyes. He looked so adorable, if she were being brutally honest, with the way the light fell across the room and over his bare shoulder. Her stomach did a little flip, cheeks burning.

"Skooma? Really?"

"Yeah."

"You sure you didn't dream it?"

"No."

"Maybe _I'm_ dreaming then," he mumbled, closing his eyes again.

"Hey, wake up," she said, placing her hand on his bare chest and pushing him a little. "I never get to see you anymore."

He opened his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I'm sorry."

She hesitated, biting her lip in thought.

"I love it when you do that," he breathed, running his hand down her arm. "So damn sexy."

"Where are we going?" she let slip, not really hearing him. His brows knotted in confusion.

She coughed, clearing her throat, and tried again. "After this, I mean. You said, back in Whiterun –"

"I asked if you wanted to move with me," he finished, giving her hand a small squeeze. "I remember."

Lydia waited for him to continue. She could hear a bird outside the window, the mumbling voices of a few early risers.

He sighed after a moment. "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it much."

Oh.

_Ouch._

Something inside her stung at that. _She'd_ thought about it a lot. A little too much, maybe. Only _every day._

"No, not like that," he said, recognising the hurt on her face. "It's just – _mm,"_ he sighed. "I've been so busy lately, and so tired."

He smiled a little, but Lydia found she was just too wounded to smile back. "I meant it. I mean it. I really do. I want to live with you – and not just as your Thane, or your friend. As _more._ As – hm," he paused, thinking a moment. "Hey, what do they call people who are – you know – _with_ each other here? More than friends, but not married or anything. In Cyrodiil we'd be called _partisans,_ but I don't think that word is used here. Like courting, almost, but less formal. Sort of."

Lydia frowned. "Nothing, Cato. Doesn't really work like that here."

"What do you mean?"

"You're either sweet on a girl or you're not. And if you are, you marry her. _That's it."_

His hand froze on her arm. "Oh."

She let him flounder with that a moment, let the silence grow heavy and awkward. Did she feel bad? A little, maybe. Oh well.

"Ah. Hm. Right," he stuttered, simply unable to look her in the eye. "Well. That's – that's… Well shit, Lydia, what am I supposed to say to _that?"_

She shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it much."

Cato took his hand off her arm, moved away from her a little. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No."

He frowned. "You sure?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

 _"I'm fine,_ Cato," she snapped.

An uncomfortable silence settled on them both, but Lydia refused to budge. She was hurt – _he_ had hurt her – and she wanted him to know it.

"Okay. Well… I guess I'll get going then," he said, throwing the warm furs off and slipping quietly out of bed. Facing the ceiling, Lydia couldn't really see him, didn't really _want_ to, only his dark figure as he moved around the dim room, gathering his things. His shape hesitated at the side of the bed a moment, only a moment, as if he wanted to say something.

She didn't turn to face him. He left.

And then she left.

And then she found Kharjo again.

"I got a letter the other day. From the Jarl of Whiterun."

Kharjo glanced up from his hand of cards, yellow eyes on hers.

She'd bought him a brand new deck from Brand-Shei in the market the other day, teaching him some games she used to play in the barracks with the other Hold guards. The man was a fast learner – he'd already bested her at Rat and Two-Trolls, and he was getting better at Five Card Blow-Hard – a horrid name, but her favourite game – and she reluctantly admitted he'd probably beat her at that too. She wasn't any good at his Elsweyr games, though, most of which involved little metal balls or jacks and a swift hand, neither of which she had. They'd tried using coins, but failed miserably. She kept dropping them through the cracks in the wooden planks, sending them plunking into the cold water below.

He set his cards down on the old fish barrel they'd dragged up from the lower docks and used as a table, and picked up his little black flask. "Ah. I see," he said, taking a sip of Skooma. "You are in trouble then, no?"

Lydia frowned, thinking that maybe she shouldn't say anything else – maybe the damned thing should stay where it was, crumpled in her pocket. And yet she had the strangest feeling Kharjo might figure it out for himself anyway.

"Yes," she sighed, staring down at her own hand of cards. She traced her thumb along the outside ridge of one, a black two, figuring out how to say what she wanted to say. "It's hard, sometimes, you know. Hearing what people say about him, _to_ him. Cato, I mean," she clarified, and Kharjo nodded. He knew. "They don't care what he's done, what he's doing for them, and I can't change their minds. I can't control what they think, what they say. They can't see past his skin, or past the way he speaks."

It felt good saying that. She had no one else to say it to. Cato knew, of course. But perhaps what she really needed was a third party. A friend.

She frowned, folding her cards down on the table with a loud thump. "Sometimes I want to just – just grab them, you know, and shake them and scream 'look! Can't you _see?'_ Not without everyone, _everyone,_ the Jarl, my father, telling me what to do, what to think. I have no control over _any_ of it, and it's so – so _maddening!_ I can't control them and there's _nothing_ more I want than that: to show them who he _really_ is, what he means to me. He makes me so a _ngry_ sometimes," she seethed, remembering that morning, "enough to nearly throttle him – the stupid shit he says, the stupid shit he does."

She let out a frustrated sigh, tapping her hand on her deck, thinking a moment. But then she smiled a little. "But other times he is so sweet it would almost be cheap if anyone else did it. And he's brave, _so_ brave for doing what he's doing despite it all." She rubbed at her eyes in frustration, glancing out across the cold water, out at the boats. "I feel like I'm floundering out there, in the lake all alone. I feel so helpless."

The Khajiit nodded. "Kharjo knows more than anyone the burden of birthplace," he said. "He sometimes wonders, sometimes dreams – what if he were born a little more north? Or east or west – someplace where the sand did not blow, the sun was not as hot. If his parents had less fur and no tails, no claws, and if the Twin Moons had no place in charting out his destiny. What then?"

He gave a little shrug. "Maybe things would be different. Maybe Kharjo would be home and not here. Maybe his story would be happier – and the people friendlier, the things they say nicer. But if it was – if we were not Khajiit – and your Dragonborn not from Empire – you know what?"

"What?" she asked.

"We would never have met you."

Lydia sighed. "I know. You're right. You're right. But I'm sorry, Kharjo. For everything. I really am."

He leaned back in his little seat. "It is not your fault, friend. One cannot speak for them all. But you know, he has learned something from it. There is a saying from Kharjo's homeland, in the far western dunes of Anequina, that Khajiit holds dear: _taelim lays ma kunt la tastatie."_

"What does it mean?"

"There is no good translation in this tongue, but roughly this means _teach not what you can't._ And Kharjo is not guiltless. No one is. And he knows teaching a man to kill is easy part, but true challenge lies in teaching him when to spare a life."

Lydia smiled at him, nodding towards the flask in his hand. "I think you've had too much Skooma. Or _I_ have."

Kharjo chuckled. "Maybe you have, my friend. But sound advice is sound advice, no matter the medium, no? What Khajiit is saying is that sometimes, you need to let the fish get away," he said, gesturing out to the lake. "Let it go. But others, you need to hold on tight, even if it is too slippery."

Lydia bit her lip in thought. "How do I know?"

"Ah. You _don't._ That is the tricky part, see? You _feel."_ He pointed a finger at his chest, over his heart. "Close both eyes to see with the other."

She smiled again, sad but comforted now, in a way. She would be okay. Everything would be okay. "Are you always this philosophical? Or is it just the Skooma talking?"

Kharjo laughed, shrugging. "Why can't it be both?!"

 _Why can't it be both._ She liked that.

* * *

"Lydia? Hey Lyds, wake up."

She was right on the verge of an uneasy sleep. It felt like she was being jerked back from the curb before stepping in the path of a wagon. Her eyes flew open, and it was dark in the room, and it took her a moment of blinking to make out his face against the shadows, smiling at her, and then – a warm hand across her stomach, slipping between the sheets, holding her close.

"Mm, what? Cato –"

"Yeah, it's me," he whispered in her ear, breath hot against her cheek and neck.

"What – what time –?"

"Not yet dawn. Listen, before you say anything, I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

She squinted at him in confusion, mind still a little groggy, and then she remembered.

"Oh. Right."

"I didn't mean it like that. I'm really excited to move in with you, you know, and I've been thinking –"

"Oh gods, not _that,"_ she smirked, voice a little hoarse. "You've been thinking again."

She thought he smiled – it was hard to see in the dark – and he pinched her side playfully, making her squeak. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Stand back everyone."

"I'm sorry as well," she said, touching his face softly. "I didn't mean to say that. About – marriage. I sort of put you on the spot. Not in a nice way. Sorry."

"Yeah, you kind of did."

A silence passed between them, not really uncomfortable, just hesitant. Lydia was thinking about what she'd said, and she knew he was, too.

"Look," he said after a moment, not quite sure of himself. "I know its normal for Nords to – to _marry_ so quickly, seeing how short and harsh life is here, but that's not – I mean I don't think –"

"It's fine, Cato," she chuckled a little, cheeks turning red nonetheless. "I didn't mean it – I was just angry."

He raised his eyebrows playfully. "Oh, is that right? I'm not _good_ enough to marry, then?"

Lydia bit back a laugh, her cheeks darkening even more, but you know, her stomach churned at the thought.

Of that.

Of _marrying_ Cato.

It was strange – she'd never really thought of it before. She didn't know why. Perhaps it was because, growing up without a mother, she'd never had anyone to talk about these things with. Growing up with her brother meant getting her braids pulled and mud thrown in her face and being bribed to play with swords instead of dolls. Growing up with her father meant the _honour of being a Thane_ was the only thing he ever talked about – and all that came with it, including the knowledge that her Thane's well-being came before her own happiness, her own desires – desires like finding someone, and loving them, and wanting to settle down. And marrying them.

Would she? If he asked?

They hadn't even – _you know –_ but they'd come close a couple times. It was tradition to wait until marriage, to save yourself for someone, but tradition was only that: tradition. No one followed it. She hadn't. She doubted Cato did, either, if it even worked like that in Cyrodiil.

It would just _happen,_ when the time was right, and she guessed it hadn't been. Not yet.

Marriage, though. That was another matter entirely.

But the thought wasn't unwelcome.

That both elated her and terrified her.

Could she see herself with him? Could she imagine them both in old age, still together after all these years? Maybe. Maybe not. She didn't know.

Gods, but it was too early for such things.

"No," she joked back, her stomach in a twist now, her skin flushed at her thoughts. "You're too stubborn. And you're pretty much already married to yourself."

He smirked at that. "Yeah. I _am_ devishly handsome and all. I don't think you could handle it anyway."

She punched his chest playfully. "Ass."

"That reminds me," he said, leaning in closer. "I'm not wearing any pants."

"That so?" she smirked, reaching across and – yep, no pants.

"Told you."

"You are a bad influence," she said, and he leaned over and kissed her.

"I know."


	19. To the Ones We Know and Love

**A/N: Hey guys! Guess what? I lied again! Big surprise there, eh? Haha! I said last chapter that it was much longer so I had to cut it in half, and this would be the last half - well, actually, it turns out I am very good at stretching things out, and so the chapter is in three parts! Well, not really parts - they are all separate chapters - but by parts I mean I had the intention of doing this all in one chapter. So this is 2/3 I guess? I don't even know any more.**

**Anyways. Enough rambling.**

**Senomaros, my friend, I wrote sexytimes just for you! Right at the beginning, look! You don't even have to scroll down that far! Haha, I hope you enjoy it!**

**If you like the chapter, let me know! If not, let me know too! I'm always looking for feedback, and I really do appreciate every review I receive!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"Lydia," Cato breathed, "You are so fucking _sexy."_

Lydia smirked, her heart racing, her face flushed, her belly in a mess of knots – and her skin raising the hair on her arms as Cato's warm fingers brushed against her stomach, hastily pulling up the loose tunic she was wearing.

"Sexy?" she whispered as the shirt slid over her head, messing up her hair.

"Yeah."

"What about _beautiful?"_

"Mm," he grunted, tossing her shirt aside. "That too."

Cato kissed her neck, his tongue and teeth and lips making her quiver under their touch.

Clutching onto the front of his sweater with one hand, the fingers of the other ran through his hair slowly, and she enjoyed the feel of it, the softness of his Imperial hair that never stayed flat, never lost its lustre, its shine. So different from the shaggy Nordic manes. She loved it. She loved his beard, too, longer than normal but still shorter than most, and she could not help but feel it again, the prickly skin of his face as hot as ever against her cheek, as hot as the burning hands gripping her hips tight, pulling her body flush against his. The wood of the door against her bare back was cool and smooth in contrast.

What _was_ it with Cato and doors?

"I dunno," he breathed hot against her neck, and it was only then Lydia realised she'd voiced the concern aloud. "It's fun though, right?"

"Sure."

"We can move to the bed if you want."

He'd said that before, and this wasn't their first carnal tryst, but something still made her stomach twist even more, made her cheeks flare even brighter than before. Maybe it was his voice, rough and low now, or his stupid half-smirk, or the feel of his heavy breathing her skin that did it. Maybe it was simply because he was Cato, and he was striking in the moonlight, and she knew him better than anyone.

"No," she managed to squeak out in a poor attempt at sounding sultry. "Let's stay here."

Cato raised an eyebrow and gave her a roguish sort of smirk. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright," he groaned, and then he slipped a hand down to the back of her left thigh, right under her ass, and hitched her leg up around his waist, his hips digging into hers.

Lydia gasped – she could feel the result of his arousal pressing against her abdomen, straining tightly against the front of his pants. He smelled like leather and Cato and he tasted like ale and Cato and his strength, his build, his masculine presence – still not as vigorous as a Nord, but even so, it was different, in a _very_ good way – hovered over her and had her breathless and pinned against the door behind her.

"I love watching you blush," he murmured, kissing her. And then, with a little smirk, one she could feel against her lips, he added, "so fucking _beautiful."_

Some primal part of her pushed off the door a little and pressed herself back into him, driving her hips deeper into his.

He groaned into the kiss, and she could feel it rumble in his chest. Butterflies exploded in her gut and she felt his heady tone melt into a pleased smirk as her hands wandered to his waist, tugging his belt loose impatiently. He let her leg down to make it easier.

"Lydia, you want me to – _fuck!"_ he hissed, shuddering as Lydia plunged her hand down his pants, grabbing hold of him. That made her smile. "By the Eight, woman, you could wait until the pants are _off."_

He squirmed against her, his hands unsure of what to do, where to touch her, so she used his moment of weakness against him. One hand in his pants, the other on his shoulder, she used her brute Nordic strength to switch positions – his back thumping against the door, her back exposed to the heat radiating from the low fire in the mantle.

His eyes widened at the change, and then they narrowed as she squeezed, and moved her hand, and she rather enjoyed being in control like this, she thought, of making _him_ breathless, of seeing _him_ wriggle under her touch.

_"Fuck,"_ he groaned through gritted teeth, and he arched into her, his breath shallowing, his skin slickening with a thin sheen of sweat just visible in the pale moonlight, and Lydia kissed him as she moved her hand up and down, fast then slow, tight and loose. "Fuck. You're getting _really_ good at this, Lyds."

No one but Cato had ever called her Lyds. Well, one of her fellow guardsman did once – only once – because she'd always thought it childish, thought it inane. It used to make her skin crawl, and it still did, she supposed, when Cato whispered it to her.

"Thanks."

She kissed him, on his lips, his cheek, his neck. His grip on her arms was tightening, his fingernails digging into her skin, and his entire body was tensing, and stretching, and pulling taut, and she knew he was growing close when, out of the mumbled jargon of moans and groans and _fucks_ and _gods, Lyds_ she could discern a breathless, "Lyds, I'm… almost there…"

But instead of easing up she only went faster, and then a near-feral growl tore from his throat and his whole body shuddered as he fell over the edge.

_"Fuck,"_ he gasped again for what felt like the millionth time, his chest heaving as he rested his forehead on her shoulder, against her neck in exhaustion. "Lydia. Fuck."

She loved it. Loved knowing that she could do this for him, _to_ him, and he enjoyed it so much, got so much pleasure from simple words and touches and kisses. It made her insides twist, her legs turn to jelly, because she knew it was more than that – he enjoyed it because it was _her._ Lydia. No one else.

She let him recover, removing her hand from his pants, wiping it on his pant leg.

"How was that?"

He chuckled, lifting his head to look her in the eyes. His eyes were heavy and tired, both from the release and the long hours he'd been away, yet they still had their spark. And his roguish smirk, his ruffled hair, _him_ – it made her weak in the knees. "It was alright."

_"Alright?"_ she smirked. "Sounded better than _alright._ You might have woken up the entire inn, you know."

He smiled, and then he kissed her gently, fully, like he really meant it. "Fine," he said, pulling away a little. "It was pretty damn amazing."

"That's more like it."

"Yeah, sure, you're my hero, whatever. You ruined my pants though."

"It was worth it, don't even lie."

He rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the smirk from his face. "Yeah, I know. Mostly clothed door foreplay _is_ kind of sexy." He made a face at her, and she smiled. _"Beautiful._ You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Probably not."

"So where do you want it? On the desk?" he smirked. "It's your turn now."

Lydia smiled at him, but she placed a hand on his chest as he reached for the lacing at the front of her pants. "It's fine, Cato," she said. "It's late. You're tired. Get some rest."

He eyed her warily. "What? Is this a trick?"

"No –"

"I don't believe you," he said, tugging at the hem of her pants playfully. "You just jumped me. Should I expect a dragon in the closet? Because that would _really_ ruin the mood, you know."

She chuckled a little, her hand sliding from his chest to cup his face. "There's not, Cato. Really. Go to sleep."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Really." She leaned in and kissed him, her eyes closed, his eyes closed, and then she smiled into it. "You'll just owe me later."

He smiled back. "Looking forward to it."

She pulled away from him and let him put away his things – the travelling pack and ebony sword he'd dropped by the door after she'd ambushed him – and she wished it were a little lighter in the room as she watched him change his pants, tossing the spoiled pair in the corner to deal with later.

They slipped into bed, the silver moon casting a pallid gloom over the furs, and he held her close, his arm around her waist, his chest against her back.

"Thanks for that, Lyds," he whispered, warm breath blowing a few strands of hair at the back of her head, the base of her neck. "That was really nice. You're a great distraction, you know," he murmured playfully, kissing her shoulder. "I think I needed that."

"Cato," she whispered back.

"Hm?"

"What are we doing here?"

"What?"

"In Riften. It's been nearly two weeks and you still haven't told me what it is you're doing here. So now I'm asking."

He sighed, and she didn't really expect an answer.

"It's nothing, Lydia," he mumbled after a long moment. "I told you. Just a few jobs here and there."

"For who?"

"The Companions. The Jarl. The College. Anyone and everyone."

"You're shutting me out, Cato. You're not telling me everything."

"I'm not, Lydia. Everything's fine."

She frowned, even though he couldn't see that. "You would tell me if something was wrong though, right?"

"Yeah."

"And you wouldn't lie."

He paused. It wasn't a question.

"No. Night, Lyds."

* * *

"He's working himself to death," Lydia said, making her Khajiit friend turn from the vendor's goods and raise an eyebrow.

"Your Dragonborn?"

"Yes. Cato. He's – he's doing something here – a job or something, and he's not telling me what it is."

Kharjo ignored the looks around him and the whispers of _Cat? In the city?_ among other less subtle and respectful things.

It wasn't often Lydia and her friend left the docks. The glares and the stares and the horrible, horrible things people would say to him, about him – it just wasn't worth it. Most everyone here knew Lydia was Housecarl to the most powerful Thane in Skyrim, and if this cat knew _her_ – well, then, no one could really stop them anyway. It was a beautiful day, too, bright and clear, and it was Turdas, the big market day, and after what he'd said to her: _Kharjo does love his sweets. All Khajiit do. But you know what he has yet to taste? A sweetroll._

Well, she just couldn't say no, could she?

"Must you know?" Kharjo asked offhandedly, eyeing up Madesi's stall of shimmering, glittering jewellery. The Argonian watched him with a wary eye, his crested feathers dancing in the fish-saturated breeze – the lizard people had no love of their fellow beast folk either.

"Must I –? _Yes!"_ Lydia wheezed incredulously. "He's always told me before, even if I stayed behind. He can have his secrets – everyone does. But I just – I don't understand. Something's not right."

"We should go back and purchase some long taffy," Kharjo said, gripping the little woven basket close to himself. "Maybe another sweetroll."

Lydia frowned. "Are you even listening?"

Kharjo glanced down at her, his ears pricked forward innocently, but a small smile on his face, one that Lydia had grown to know well the last few weeks.

He shrugged. "Kharjo thinks maybe your Dragonborn has reasons for being sneaky."

Lydia rolled her eyes and crossed her arms with a frown. "You're not very helpful, you know."

Kharjo smirked. "One does what one can."

She huffed in irritation but smiled a little anyways as she watched him peruse the stalls again, eyeing up Marise's rather junky pawns. The Dunmer's red eyes narrowed at him as well.

The Khajiit was essentially a furrier, taller version of Cato. With a tail.

"You would get along well with him," Lydia said. "I wish you could have met him."

"We did, once," the Khajiit said, inspecting a tarnished flagon with critical eyes. "Kharjo remembers his face well. He is kind. Stubborn and swift and haughty at times, and there is some sadness about him – and the weight of the world on his shoulders – but he is generous and often cares too much for things. Kharjo knows he cares too much for you."

Lydia blinked, watching him set the flagon down and pick up a colourful little bowl. "You remember him? That was long ago."

"When will you understand Khajiit is cat? Good ears and eyes." Kharjo grinned, tapping at his temple. "Good memory."

"Right."

He set the bowl down. "Do you trust him?"

"Do I trust Cato?"

"Correct."

"Yes," she answered swiftly, without thinking. It surprised her, really, how easy the answer came. She smiled a little at that. "With my life."

"Then that is it. Trust him."

"That's it?"

Kharjo shrugged. "What else is there?"

Lydia didn't know what to say. She followed Kharjo aimlessly through the growing crowd, the shouting and bartering and laughing market, scanning the stalls and their wares. Ignoring the looks. Thinking.

"You know," Kharjo said after a while, turning round to face her. The man was tall, nearly a head taller than her, the tips of his ears even taller than the Nord men in the crowd. "Ahkari does not like Kharjo sneaking inside the city. She thinks he will be caught one day. She thinks he will not come back – that he will not be there to guard her caravan, and that she must hire someone else if he does not return. Kharjo did not return for a full moon, once. He was… angry," he said, his ears pinning back a little. "He needed time to think things through. But Ahkari is this one's friend. She freed Kharjo from prison in Cyrodiil, you know."

"From prison? Really?"

"Correct. Kharjo owes her much. She may frown at him and scold him, but she is still his friend." He shrugged again. "But anyways, Ahkari did not leave. She did not hire another guard. She did not know if he would return, but she trusted him. She did not know. But she believed. What else is there?"

Lydia thought she understood now. If there was no trust, there was nothing.

Kharjo's small smile widened as he watched her, and he crossed his arms. "You know, friend, Kharjo has an idea. You should come with him and visit the caravan. Just outside the city. He would like you to meet Ahkari and Zaynabi and Dro'marash."

Lydia blinked. "You – you want me to come visit your friends?"

"Correct. You come?" The cat turned round and started walking before she could answer.

"What _– now?"_

"Of course, my friend!" Kharjo laughed loudly, spinning round in the crowd with his arms spread wide before him. "By the looks of it, it is hardly a frogjump past noon. You have time! What else will you do?"

Lydia hesitated a moment in the bustling square, unsure, with the voices and the smell of fish and oil and moulding wood around her, but when she lost sight of Kharjo with a swift flick of his spotted tail between the crowd, she followed after him.

She trusted him.

"Now listen closely," Kharjo told her as the great city gates slammed shut behind them, the guards a little too relieved maybe. "Ahkari is this one's friend, as you know, but she can be somewhat… _hm_ … cautious? No, no, this is not the word –"

"Callous?"

"Ah! Yes! That one! _Callous,_ stony like Skyrim itself! She is like our mother – stern and bold. But her heart is warm. _Somewhere_ deep," he added with a little chuckle. "Zaynabi is Ahkari's sister, and she is much gentler. Kharjo calls her _Tayir_ – little bird – because she reminds him of those small grey birds that flit through trees. She has a kind spirit. Dro'marash is other guard. He is older than Kharjo and tough like leather and he speaks very little. But he is strong and wise. Kharjo admires him."

Lydia smiled as she followed him down the hardened dirt path that led out of the city, careful not to step on any roots or stones. There were the soft colourful trees here, the ones Cato had told of in his story of home, but it was midwinter and the leaves were gone, carpeting the forest around them in a thick rustling rug of dead matter. The winter sun shone weakly through the bare grey branches, casting spindly shadows across the path, the leaves, the rocks and fallen logs.

They passed Sigaar lounging in his carriage, waiting for a customer, past the towers where she could nearly feel the glares of the guards on the back of her neck, and past the stables where Worthy's empty stall stood out from the packed horses and scurrying stableboys like a beacon.

It was quiet in the forest. She'd always liked that about the Rift. The lake stretched out not far from the path, and yet she could not hear the waves crash against the rocky shore.

"Kharjo thinks you will like them," he continued. "He thinks you will laugh and sing and make memories with his friends. He hopes, at least. Ah, here we are now. Ahkari, my friend! Warmest greetings!"

Just off the road on the leeward side of a scraggly cliff, three or four small hide tents were scattered around the little clearing. The earth was trampled at the entrance to them all, and a much larger one – circular, strapped steady with a patchwork of furs and wood and canvas – had a patterned rug at the entrance where another Khajiit sat, a female, slender and cross-legged and draped in a travel-worn embroidered cloak. Behind her, in the darkness of the tent, crates upon crates stacked high crowded out any dream of maneuvering around or even organising the mess. Rolled rugs and fabrics and baskets of dried spices and beads teetered dangerously close on the ledges, and Lydia could hear the snorting and stomping of rugged Skyrim horses somewhere nearby.

"Kharjo?" the woman rasped out, voice sandy like Kharjo's but higher in pitch. "Is that you? By the Great Mane, you dolt, Ahkari thought –"

She paused, eyes swivelling on Kharjo's companion. They narrowed, her dark amber face scrunching in a frown. "What is this, Kharjo? A tavern wench? Some bedraggled traveller? Unless she is here to purchase my wares, put her back where you found her."

Kharjo smiled despite the less-than-encouraging greeting. "Ahkari, this is Kharjo's good friend Lydia. He has told you about her."

"Lydia?" The Khajiit stood up nimbly, nose twitching as she took a step forward off the rug, examining her. The woman smelled of worn leather and exotic spices and campfire smoke, and only a little of the moon sugar sweetness that clung to Kharjo's fur was on her. Lydia felt like she was a piece of elk meat being graded for sale. She shuffled on the spot, a little uncomfortable.

"You are the one who made Ahkari's guard bleed, correct? You make big mess on his nice shirt. It took this one two days of scrubbing to get the blood out."

"Right," Lydia said, attempting to smile. "I did. Sorry about that."

"Hm. Indeed."

"Kharjo would like to invite his friend to our fire," Kharjo said, placing a hand on Lydia's shoulder. "He would like to share our food and stories with her. If Ahkari will allow it."

Ahkari studied Lydia a moment longer, her eyes yellow and sharp. She pinned her ears back, tilted her head, then shrugged.

"Bah," she huffed, turning round. "You have strange taste in friends, Kharjo. Ahkari welcomes that one."

Lydia let out a breath and smiled up at Kharjo, who smiled back down at her.

"Come," he grinned, shaking her shoulder in a friendly way. "This is a far cry from the sands of home, but come meet Kharjo's roving mishmash family."

So she did.

* * *

"You are the Nord who punched Kharjo in his face, no?"

The sky had darkened around them, the heavens turning a rich blue-black and the stars beginning to dot the sky around the edges. The fire roared before them, tall and blistering, its orange light casting odd shapes on the tall pines and rocks and hide tents, throwing shadows near the edge of the camp.

Lydia chuckled, her face warm from the fire and the question and maybe it had something to do with the Skooma being passed round in that little black flask. Her legs didn't even ache anymore, and Oblivion knows how long she'd been sitting like the cat-people on the cold hard ground – cross-legged on a thin thatched rug. This reminded her of her days as a soldier – camped out in the wilds with nothing but the light of the fire and the company to keep her safe.

"Yes," she said, watching the other female Khajiit's face light up from across the flames. "I did."

"Ha! You make this one laugh! Zaynabi does not think you know how greatly she has always wanted to do that!"

"Ich! _Tayir!_ How can you _say_ such things?" Kharjo scolded, feigning hurt beside Lydia, cross-legged as well – they all were, really, except old Dro'marash, who preferred to stand right on the edge of the light, keeping a constant watch. "You will make Kharjo weep at your indifference."

"Insolence?" Lydia offered.

"Yes! That's the word! You make this one sad with how little you care."

Zaynabi laughed again, the firelight dancing in her bright eyes, sparkling from her many piercings. She was quite beautiful, Lydia thought, her fur darker and finer than Kharjo's, her silken dress flowing and iridescent beneath her warmer cloak. "Kharjo, my dear _ma,_ you could not make Zaynabi believe you had grown two heads even if the other started talking."

"What _ever_ do you mean by that _Tayir?"_

"You have always been one for dramatics. This one thinks if you had only stayed home in the sands you might have become an actor."

Kharjo smiled, waving her off. "Perish the thought _Tayir._ Kharjo would surely die of the cold here if it were not for your sharp tongue."

"Why thank you, friend," she smirked dryly. "Ever kind words."

"And your face! Your poor, poor face is so ugly even a bear would not speak with you. Someone must keep you sane!"

"Enough of your squabbling Kharjo, Zaynabi," Ahkari hissed, still deep into the rug she was weaving with deft fingers out front of her tent. "You cry like Ahkari's kittens when her milk ran dry. _Min,_ stop."

Kharjo glanced sideways at Lydia, smirking, and Zaynabi smiled subtly at the both of them. The fire crackled and popped before them.

"Well, what must what talk about then, Ahkari?" Kharjo probed out into the silence. "Surely we are allowed to speak."

Ahkari shrugged, quick fingers moving up and down with the sharp needle. "We do not care. We are busy."

Kharjo smiled. "Dro'marash, our good friend!" he called out, leaning over the fire. "Dro, come tell us a story!"

The old warrior turned toward the flames, his weathered face and hardened eyes just barely visible in the low light.

"No."

"Dro'marash, we insist!"

"No."

Lydia smirked. The old Khajiit had said no more in the last few hours than that. She'd heard more noise from his chinking plate armour than from the man himself.

"Bah, forget the old _bosh'tet,"_ Zaynabi said. "He will be dead soon enough."

"What you lack in respect you make up for in wit, Zaynabi," Kharjo chuckled. "Poor Dro. He does not stand a chance against you."

"And neither do you, fool."

"Again, you make me weep!"

"I will make you bleed just as quick," she smiled playfully. "Kharjo, pass Zaynabi the meat, would you?"

Kharjo gently picked up one of the small rattan mats that held a sizeable chunk of cooked stag meat – which, by the way, Lydia found _delicious_ as it was seasoned with salts and spices not native to Skyrim and sliced much thinner – and instead of passing it to her like he should have, he tossed it over lazily.

It flipped, landing in the dirt with a small thud.

"Gah! _La tariq! 'Ant ghabi Kharjo al'abalah!"_ she hissed.

Kharjo's earrings bobbed and jingled noisily as he threw his head back and roared in laughter, clutching his stomach, and Lydia could not help but laugh along heartily.

_"Wa'arju 'ann 'iiteam lak aldbb!"_

"Watch your tongue!" Ahkari hissed, ears pinned, teeth bared. "Or this one will cut it out!"

Lydia laughed, her world a little fuzzy, a little wobbly from the Skooma, and she swore she even heard a little snicker from Dro'marash off in the corner.

Zaynabi's eyes narrowed at Kharjo across the fire, still chuckling away. "You are fortunate company is present, _ma'jnun._ Zaynabi would not hesitate to belt you for that. Such a waste."

"What did that all mean?" Lydia asked Kharjo, smiling as she watched Zaynabi pick bits of dirt and grass from the meat with a scowl on her face.

"Oh, that?" he chuckled. "We mustn't speak of that now – Ahkari will skin this one and make him into a coat if she hears such foul words again." He thought a minute, eyes sparkling, and then leaned in closer. "Kharjo will tell you later, friend," he smirked. "He knows many bad words in Khajiiti he could teach you."

Lydia laughed, taking another long sip of Skooma from Kharjo's little black flask. "I'm holding you to that, Kharjo," she said, nudging him playfully with her shoulder.

He smiled. "Kharjo would never disappoint you, friend."

The evening flickered by like the fire in stories and laughs: Zaynabi had told a long tale of the Great Mane Rid-Thar-ri'Datta, a prophet who revealed the Riddle'Thar to the Khajiit, who in Elsweyr is the Great Sugar God, and another story about how Dro'Zira came to be the most famous of Khajiit heroes, he who carried the great Ash King himself up the Red Mountain and pounced upon the evil Dumalacath as his blade was to the great King's throat, saving his life.

Much too soon, night had crept upon them as the stars flickered brightly in the clear inky sky above.

Lydia often wondered if others across the world could see the same stars as she – if everyone looking up at them now saw all the stars in the universe, the ones high above their heads in the vast, yawning cradle of the earth they all shared. If those from the past – those like the great Khajiit heroes in the stories – had gazed upon the very same ones. It made her feel a sort of connectedness, a kinship with all living things, and it made her feel vastly insignificant and yet so very lucky at once.

You know, she was beginning to think it might just be something in the Skooma that made people think like that.

"Dance! Dance!" someone shouted, and Lydia thought it might have been Kharjo, because he darted off into a tent and brought out a little drum and grass whistle and Zaynabi laughed, rising gracefully from her seat, and then the music and singing began, tribal and yet flowing, shifting like great sand dunes over long ages:

_"Come and go with me to that land_

_Taeal maei sdyqy al a brand_

_Come, my friend, and take my hand_

_Taeal maei sdyqy al a brand_

_Walk with me o'er the scorching sand_

_Taeal maei sdyqy al a brand_

_Where the sun shines always warm!"_

The leather drumbeat and little grass whistle and clapping hands wove together brilliantly, fluidly, and the words spun with them in such a beautiful, buoyant way, and the fire crackling and the laughing, smiling faces of the Khajiit lit up the darkness around them, and Lydia was mesmerised as Zaynabi danced before her, her iridescent dress dazzling in the firelight and in the pale light of the twin moons above as she twirled round the flames.

If anyone had told her that morning that Lydia Battle-Born, daughter of Hrongar, kin of Balgruuf the Greater, would be singing and laughing and drinking with a caravan of Khajiit by the time the sun went down, she would have called them mad. And yet this felt so right.

She was warm despite the cold of night, and the Skooma made her wobbly, made her head feel like it was floating up into the stars, and the Khajiit woman dancing in front of her was, in that moment, equally as powerful and important as any Septim King that had held the throne to the Empire in all the ages that had passed.

_"_ _There will be freedom in that land..._

_There will be justice in that land..._

_There will be singing in that land..._

_There will be loving in that land..._

_There will be friendship in that land..._

_Come and go with me to that land!_

_Taeal maei sdyqy al a brand!"_

The song ended with a loud thump of the drum in Kharjo's lap, and everyone smiled and clapped as Zaynabi took a bow before her audience, her earrings glimmering bright as her teeth, as her eyes, as her beautiful dress, and Ahkari laughed too, the wrinkles around her tired eyes kinder now, and even Dro'marash had moved a little closer to the light, the ghost of a smile on his greying face.

"Wonderful!" Lydia clapped, dazzled by the song and the laughter and the dancing. "I loved it! What did it mean, Kharjo?" she asked, leaning closer to him, swaying a little from the Skooma.

He smiled at her. _"Taeal maei sdyqy al a brand?_ To the ones we know and love."

Lydia smiled, trying to imprint this moment in time onto her memory – Kharjo's smiling face and the starlight in his eyes, the light of the fire, the Khajiiti words – all of it. She hoped the liquor would help, but she very much doubted so, and she found she was a little sad at that.

"You played _tabil_ correct this time," Zaynabi laughed, floating round the fire back to her sitting mat. "You did not miss a single beat!"

Kharjo laughed, setting the little drum out of his lap to the side. _"Tayir,_ my lovely, Kharjo would never dream of sullying your beautiful dancing."

"You say such flattering words for one who plays with snakes!"

He laughed aloud, though Lydia really had no idea why.

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"It is a… _hm._ A Euchre? No, not that…"

"Euphemism?"

"Yes! That one!"

Lydia was almost proud of herself for thinking of the word.

She glanced across the fire, at Zaynabi's smiling face, thinking.

"Kharjo…"

"Yes, my friend?"

"Are you and Zaynabi…?"

She couldn't finish. She didn't know why. Her face went red, and she began to think that perhaps she shouldn't have asked. She didn't know Khajiit customs.

"Mated?" he asked, and she nodded, thankful he had caught on. "Oh, no no _no!_ Never in a million moons would Kharjo think of Zaynabi as such! She is like his sister, a very good friend. And she is _'unthaa,_ and Kharjo rather fancies _dhakar."_

Lydia frowned a little, and she must have looked quite confused, because Kharjo chuckled to himself.

"What Kharjo is saying is that he prefers the company of men. _Dhakar._ As little _Tayir_ says, _one who plays with snakes."_

Lydia blinked, taking a second to comprehend what he'd just said. "What? Really?"

"Does this make you uncomfortable?"

Suddenly a whole lot of what Kharjo did and said made sense to her.

"I – no. No, of course not, Kharjo."

And it really didn't.

She smiled a little, putting a hand on his arm in a mock conspiratorial way, and leaned in closer. "But if we're sharing then you should know I happen to prefer the company of Imperials."

He laughed. "Well then! What a pair we make! Let me tell you a story, my friend: Once, when he was young, Kharjo met a man in Cyrodiil – Khajiiti, of course – and he was swift and honourable and proud and wickedly clever," he chuckled. "And so naturally Kharjo fell in love with him. Kharjo thought he preferred ' _unthaa_ – women – before he met him. All his life he thought this, because that is what he was told. The man taught Kharjo many things – songs and stories he had gathered from his travels, the histories of men and mer. But he had to leave, of course – he was a merchant, a caravan all his own headed for Daggerfall, and the man – Ja'tesh was his name – he broke this one's heart. Crushed it. Into pulp." Kharjo's smile faded a little, his ears flicking in memory. "Kharjo never saw Ja'tesh again."

Lydia frowned, squeezing his arm a little. "I'm sorry, Kharjo."

The Khajiit shrugged. "It should not matter _what_ you prefer – it is more important _who_ you do. Is Kharjo correct?" He turned from the fire to face Lydia, his eyes a little sad. "When you look upon your Dragonborn, do you see a traitor? An Empire spy? Do you even see his dark skin any more? Kharjo did not see another like him, another _dhakar._ He only saw Ja'tesh. Ja'tesh is who he loved."

Lydia blinked away the tears – she wasn't even sure why she felt like crying – maybe it was the heat of the fire, or the cold of the winter night, or the story the Khajiit – no, _Kharjo_ – had told her, the one that left a mark on her heart now, and probably always would.

She sighed, laying her head on his shoulder, staring into the flames.

"You are a good person, Kharjo. Don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise."

"If Kharjo may impart one last piece of wisdom on you, my good friend, it is this: always do what you are afraid to do. Kharjo did not tell Ja'tesh he loved him. Remember this."

Lydia smiled, closing her eyes, shadows and light dancing behind her eyelids anyway.

* * *

**A/N: You know, the first time I played Skyrim I was a female Khajiit. I found Kharjo in the game and I just loved him so much, but I was devastated when I found out you couldn't marry any Khajiit or Bosmer in the game. So I have this little headcannon that Kharjo is my first Dragonborn's gay best friend. It works, alright?**

**Let me know what you think of that. I fully expect some backlash, but I can deal.**

**Also, the Khajiiti language is one part Arabic Google translation, one part Khajiit language, and one part made up off the top of my head. Senomaros, you poor thing, I must be killing you.**

**Thanks again, and the next chapter is on its way!**


	20. The Feel of Purple

**A/N:** **Hello again everybody! Hope you all are doing fantastic! I know I am! _Because_**

_**SEXYTIMES ENSUE** _

**So, of course, be warned – Here There Be Smut.**

**I won't go on forever because I know you all just want to get on to reading the sexytimes.**

**I had so many doubts about this chapter and I could have put the sexies anywhere, really, and I hummed and hawed for ages and ages about where the perfect moment would be for this, but I finally realised that there _is_ no perfect time or place for sex – it sort of just _happens._**

**Also this chapter happens the night of the last chapter, after Lydia parties with the Khajiit. Well, not _parties,_ but close enough.**

**Enjoy, you animals.**

* * *

The world was a little warm and fuzzy. And purple.

Ale made things tilt at a strange angle. It made your breath reek in the morning.

Mead made everything wobbly, lurching almost. And it always gave a wicked hangover.

Wine – well, the few times she'd ever had it – made things hot and bubbly. It made her a bit queasy sometimes, too.

But Skooma made the world warm and fuzzy and, oddly enough, sort of purple.

Not really the _colour_ purple, but… the _feel_ of it? Sort of like velvet: warm and fuzzy and smooth. The trees were soft and purple, not rough and brown. The great gates of Riften were a faint lilac colour even in the dead of night. The cobbled streets were a speckled mishmash of plum and mauve under the soft purple glow of the streetlamps, and felt smooth under her feet. Even the light of Keerava's dying hearthfire inside flickered in thin wisps of lavender to her slight ale-addled mind.

But Cato – he was the most vibrant shade of violet Lydia had ever seen. Or _felt,_ she supposed.

"Lydia?" he croaked, voice brimming with concern as he lurched out of the corner chair he'd been sitting in. His face was tired yet striking in the fading fire, sharp Imperial features tan from the southern sun and black from the cutting shadows. "By the Eight, it's nearly dawn! Where in Oblivion _were_ you?"

She kissed him. She strode forward and snatched his head with both her hands and kissed him, swift and hard, crushing her lips and her body against his. And he kissed her back, after a moment, like he really meant it, his hands finding their home on her waist.

"Well hello to you too," he smirked, breathless and weary. Lydia made to kiss him again, to shut the idiot up, but he chuckled, grabbing her wrists. "While I do appreciate the attention, I must insist you respond to my earlier inquiry." She rolled her eyes at his wordy words, and he smiled at that. "Where were you, Lyds? You had me worried sick."

"With Kharjo. You shaved," she hummed, smiling and dizzy, feathering her fingers along the smooth skin of his jawline. "I like it when you shave. You do it for me, don't you?"

The sheepishly bold smile he flitted her was answer enough. "Maybe." He let her wrists free, his fingertips lingering on her skin. "I believe you told me once – and you can quote me on this – quote me on quoting _you_ – _I like it when you shave. You don't look like a bandit any more."_

"I do not sound like that!" she protested, but she couldn't keep from smiling. "You're horrible at impressions, you know."

"Hey, now. You'll hurt my feelings."

"Wasn't my intention."

She smiled wider, a goofy, stupid smile, but she couldn't help it. "You look so handsome," she whispered, skimming his jaw, his cheeks again, feeling the phantom ear tip beneath her fingers. It had healed by now, of course, but it gave him a sort of lopsided look. She loved it.

He raised an eyebrow and smirked. Her belly coiled, her cheeks flushed. Fuck, he was sexy.

"Do I now?" he said, his voice Imperial smooth and so fucking perfect. _Everything_ was perfect about him, she realised – his clothes, his face, his hair, the way he smelled… "You wouldn't knife me if I jumped out of the shadows at you?"

"No. And yeah, you do. You make me think impure thoughts, you know." It was a joke, but it wasn't. A jest with a little more than truth. She could tell he knew it too.

"Only when I shave?"

"No. All the time. Every time I look at you, really."

"Was there something you wanted? I mean, other than worrying the shit out of me."

"No. I just wanted to spend time with you… alone. I never see you any more."

"We're alone now."

"Yes, we are."

Done with talking, she kissed him again. She slipped a hand under his shirt, craving his bare skin on hers, and she felt him smile under her lips.

"You've been drinking. I can taste it."

"Maybe a little. I think you have too," she smirked, eyeing the half-empty bottle of Black-Briar on the nightstand.

He smiled guiltily. "Maybe a little."

It was dark in their room, and deadly silent, every sane person in the inn gone to bed hours ago, but they were anything _but_. The fire was failing, dying with time, cutting strange shadows and shapes across the floor and furniture, across the bed. But it was warm in here, and bitter cold outside, and Lydia found there was nowhere else in the world she'd rather be.

Kharjo's words echoed around in her mind – and they had for the long walk back into the city, all through the forest and silent streets, and even now – _especially_ now – as she stood before Cato, light-headed, intoxicated, and braver than she could ever remember.

_Always do what you are afraid to do._

She slipped her hand round the back of his neck, playing with his hair a little. "Well, here we are," she whispered in an attempt at sounding sultry. "Alone. Both of us sort of drunk."

"Yeah."

"Not very responsible of us. Is it?"

"Not really, no."

Lydia frowned. "Cato. Do you know what I'm doing right now?"

"You're trying to seduce me, I think."

"It's not working."

He smirked, not even trying to hide it. "You're not very good at it, Lyds."

"You're an ass."

"So I've been told."

Fine then.

She reached down and seized the front of his pants with her free hand, and she couldn't stop the broken grin as his laugh died in his throat, as his eyes widened, his breath hitched at the unexpected contact.

"Oh," he said stupidly, wincing as she squeezed. "I _am_ an ass."

"I've always been a woman of action," she whispered again, scraping her nails against the back of his neck. The hairs on his arms rose like static, and her heart began to thrash against her ribs when she spotted the look in his eye, the lingering one, emblazoned with desire. For her. No one else.

He gave her a smug look. "That's a little better. Keep going, though."

Lydia squeezed him again, skin tingling as she pulled a strangled groan from him, and she dragged her other hand from the nape of his neck down his chest, feeling his now-tense muscles and his ever-burgeoning heat even through the shirt. She could feel his heart beneath her palm, thrumming erratically beneath his heaving chest.

"I think it must be the Nord in me, Cato. _Doing,_ not thinking."

"Right." He winced again, grunting as she moved her hand.

"And you've always been a man of too many words." He mumbled a heady agreement as he watched her intensely, and she wasn't even sure he was listening to her any more, because that really didn't make sense.

"You're right. I'm bad at this."

"Hm," he grunted.

"I don't think you realise how hard it is for me to keep my hands off you." She smiled when his breath hitched the exact moment she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his pants.

Like a spark lit in the dark he changed, and with a guttural snarl Cato caught her rear and roughly jerked her closer to him, so close their hips slammed bruisingly hard and her hands were nearly crushed between their bodies – between their chests, their thighs. His fingers sent shivers up her spine, a cold heat that began blistering from deep in her chest in thrumming waves. She blinked at the transition, a little thrown off, but even that flickered and died.

"Then _don't,"_ he growled.

She didn't.

She kissed him again. Hard, hasty, a little awkward and messy, but like she was trying to tell him something – maybe something like _you are so fucking sexy_ or _can't you see what you do to me?_ or maybe it was something much deeper than that.

The thought warped deep inside her, groaning like a steel beam under great pressure, and she growled. _"Off,"_ she commanded, tearing at his shirt. He obeyed with a languid smirk, his disheveled hair ruffling as his top was dragged over his head. It was ruffled even more as she tangled her fingers through it, revelling in it's softness, it's shine, it's utter _perfection_ in her eyes.

He kissed her neck voraciously, tongue and teeth hot on her flesh as he yanked her own shirt off over her head, his mouth leaving her skin for only a moment, and then he was back again, kissing, licking, biting her jaw, her throat, her shoulder, fleeting and messy and _so sweltering hot,_ and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in deep of his skin that smelled of leather and tanning oil and male, that smelled of _Cato._

Did he taste like that, too?

He _did,_ and she absolutely loved the way he shuddered a sigh beneath her tongue, revelled in the way his body shifted from casual to aroused, both pliant and taut, and relished the hastiness of his actions now, like he couldn't touch enough of her, wouldn't get to fast enough, as if he wanted _all of her._

_She wanted all of him too._

That thought cut her deep and made her head reel, made her skin flush and prickle and hot, her stomach plummet through the floorboards. Stirred something deep inside her – not the Skooma, she was sure – something primal, ancestral, in the very pit of her stomach behind her navel, something hot and creeping and not unwelcome – something like desire.

He made her utterly boneless with the way he looked at her then – a famished, feral way, but also one with a boundless depth, one that made Lydia feel like Cato was _really seeing_ her for the first time, and also the millionth time, and after a hundred lifetimes had passed.

On the outside, he wore plain clothes and plain leather armour that would lose him in a crowd, but underneath it all, wicked scars crossed his dark skin and his past and reminded her of the violence in his life. She'd seen him kill with the same passion she saw in his eyes now.

She knew. She knew _he_ knew.

Desire and need simmered just below her skin, and she trembled with both when she kissed him a little more slowly, a little more deeply as she decided _yes, I can do this._ She pulled back to look at his hungry grin, his wild eyes, his tousled, sweaty hair, his swollen lips.

Lydia didn't really know what made it happen. She didn't know what made the change – when things went from what they had been to something that yet _hadn't._ Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was meant to be, if you believe in that sort of thing. Lydia didn't know what to believe in anymore.

"I want you," she groaned.

"Fuck," he growled into her neck. "Yeah."

And that was it.

Every last shred of premeditated semblance of control vaporised between them as they touched each other greedily, hungrily, without bounds, and as they kissed and licked and groaned in mutual expanding need. Lydia's skin grew too hot and her head reeled and she felt soft tongue and hard teeth on her throat, her collarbone, her shoulders, and scraping nails on her hips and smooth cheeks on her chest.

She mumbled little nothings but she gasped when too-warm hands slid down her side, across her hipbones, below the waistband of her pants. He didn't even have to ask, because he _knew_ – he jerked them off her with only a little difficulty, calloused fingers brushing her stomach as he fumbled with the lacing at the front, making her shiver, making the hair all over her flesh stand on end. They fell past her hips to the floor with a dull thud round her ankles, and she kicked them aside, grinning as she returned the gesture.

She would have been impressed with herself for how steady her hands were as she tugged his belt loose, and yanked his pants off, and then his smallclothes, exposing him entirely to the hot and hazy air of the room. And especially how well she kept it together as he did the same – essentially tearing off the fabric round her breasts first, and then her own smallclothes slung round her hips, and then there they were, she realised with a start – utterly exposed to each other for the first time.

"I haven't – I haven't done this in a while," she breathed, and then all her nervousness caught up with her, slammed into her like a dragon falling from the sky. She was sure her cheeks had turned fifty shades darker. She didn't think she had been _afraid_ of this, but now, she wasn't so sure.

"Me neither," he said, his chest heaving, his fists clenched at his side. He looked just as shy, but just as heavy, just as _wanting_ as she felt inside.

Her eyes flitted down his body, and there he was. He wasn't big or overly impressive– nothing like a Nord man, of course, because he _wasn't_ – but he wasn't small, either. He was perfect, really. Perfect enough. For her.

He gazed at her too, from head to foot, taking her in, and she suddenly felt very self-conscious as his eyes raked over her naked body.

She'd always hated the way her stomach looked, and her legs were shaped weird, and he'd seen her bare breasts before but honestly they were nothing special. And her body was riddled with scars, old white ones and newer pink ones. She'd never considered herself very womanly or beautiful – she was a warrior, a shieldmaiden, and the scars came with the job. She'd never really cared before – in fact, she'd been rather proud – but _now…_ They were jagged and thin and puckered her skin in strange places and _ugly._ She unconsciously moved to cover herself up.

"Lydia," he said, seizing her wrist to stop her. He smiled a little timidly, but with more courage than herself, the scars on his face warping his once-perfect features – and yet, they made him even more perfect. "Don't. You're _beautiful."_

Her heart melted. And then he kissed her, his naked body against her naked body, and just as quick as it came, her fear dissolved into thin air because this was Cato.

She could feel his arousal against her abdomen as he pressed into her, and her head absolutely throbbed with how sweltering his skin was, how rough and smooth he was, flat and sloping, and it was all so electrifying and dizzying as he lowered her onto the bed, deep into the warm furs below him.

She trembled as Cato let his hands and mouth roam all over her body, touching every inch of her skin, from her calves and her legs to her taut stomach, over her shoulders and down her arms, lingering around her breasts. He could not get enough of her, and she did the same – letting her quivering hands slide across his scar-riddled chest, his strong arms, his back, his face. All of him. He was magnetic, like a drug, and she didn't want to ever come down from her high. His thumb brushed her nipples, and then he brought his mouth down, kissing and licking, and Lydia gasped as a deep bloodrush of desire flooded her every pore, every cell.

He kissed her breasts, the space between them, and then down her stomach both slowly and hastily, as if he wanted to take his time but his body simply would not let him. He kissed the serrated scar she'd been given against the sabre-tooth that nearly tore them to shreds, the splotchy scar from the mage's rogue fire spell, the faint one from a training accident years and years ago, before she'd ever met him.

Her own hands, wandering without a home, found the faded pink line on his stomach from the poisoned dagger that very nearly stole him away from her.

He kissed her scars, every one he could see on her torso, and when he was done he kissed just below her navel, and then he kissed the inside of her thighs, teasing her.

_"Cato,"_ she growled, and he grinned as her legs spread open of their own accord. His head between her legs, so close to where she desired him most – it was almost too much.

He withdrew and drifted over her, kissing her mouth again, and she almost voiced her displeasure at that before his fingers entered her and she gasped against his lips, her head rolling back in pure bliss as he moved in and out, back and forth, curling his fingers inside her and _fuck_ it felt _so good._ She felt, as gross as it sounds, as if she would vomit from pleasure, from the tossing, raging storm roiling inside her gut. She could not stop her hips from arching into his touch, craving the pressure and weight and _him._

And then much too soon he removed them, and he stared down at her through heavy-lidded, fierce eyes, hovering just above her, legs tangled and arms on either side of her hair splayed around her pillowed head. Her arms clutched around him, her breasts pressing against his burning chest.

She was wet and hot and wanted nothing more in the entire world than to be even closer to Cato than she was right then.

"Please," she breathed, nuzzling his sweat-slicked neck. "Please."

He said nothing as he kissed her again, both gently and hard, nudging her legs open with his knee and then, with only a little difficulty, slipped inside her.

Lydia had been with men before. Not many, but she had. A Nord once, big and bearded, who stretched her to her limit. And a little Breton man on a drunken escapade who, bless him, tried. Cato was neither. None had ever filled her like Cato did. Not big, not small, but somewhere in the middle. And it was _fucking perfect._

She whimpered a little in a mix of pain and pleasure, and he kissed her reassuringly. "You alright?" he whispered in her ear, voice low and slurring, and she nodded.

"Mhm. Just – been a while."

"Yeah. I'm probably going to fuck this up," he smirked, and through her bliss Lydia could not even be surprised he'd say something like that at a time like this.

He let her adjust for a moment and then set a slow pace, and Lydia was torn between closing her eyes in pleasure and needing to keep them open to see him. She couldn't stop the low coos that escaped her lips with each thrust, each time his hips met hers, nor could she control her hands as they wandered over his skin. She felt the dip of his back, the curve of his shoulders, and knotted her fingers in his sweaty hair.

He kissed her, his breath hot and shuddering on her throat, and traced his nose along her collarbone like he knew she loved.

"How am I doing?" he panted, quickening his pace a little.

Lydia groaned. "Good. Fucking good."

"I'm _fucking_ good? Like, fucking you good? Or I'm just –"

"Shut up."

She felt him smile against her shoulder and the airy groan that blew her hair astray as he moved a little faster, a little more frenzied, a little less smooth. There was sweat beading on his face, on his back, and Lydia felt it on her skin too, could smell it in the air, and it only made everything more stimulating, made Cato even sexier, made Lydia want him even more. The very air itself was intoxicating and magnetic and she could very nearly taste how thick velvety and _purple_ it was.

In those moments, Lydia and Cato were not Housecarl and Thane. They weren't friends. They weren't Nord and Imperial. He wasn't Dragonborn. They were just a man and a woman doing something so basic and primal and natural that everything else simply fell away. It was just them, male and female, joining together in a way that went deeper than skin colour, older than time.

It wasn't perfect – this sort of thing never really was – but the man was Cato, she reminded herself, and just because of that, it _was_ perfect. Faster, harder, louder, rougher. Lydia might have been embarrassed at all the noise she was making, at all the jargon she mumbled to him, but this was Cato, of course, and she loved him.

_She loved him!_

"I love you," she sighed, and right then she really fucking meant it.

He didn't answer her – he was much too busy trying to keep pace with her, steady his frantically thrusting hips, make himself last longer. It wasn't really working.

The pressure pooling behind Lydia's navel was mounting and her ears buzzed with his grunts and the sounds of their lovemaking and, to be quite honest, her legs were sort of cramping from his weight. He pushed her into bliss and white light exploded behind her eyes as her entire body rippled from it all, digging her nails into his back and clamping her legs around his waist. A long, low moan fell from her mouth, her eyes too heavy to keep open. She fell limp under him, utterly pliant beneath his weight.

He wasn't far behind. He thrust into her a few more times, his pace entirely lost and haphazard now, and bit onto her shoulder softly. With a wild groan he tore away from her, pulled out of her, and spent himself on the furs next to her. Something he might regret later, maybe, in an awkward conversation with Keerava, but for now it didn't matter. Nothing did but Lydia.

He collapsed on the bed next to her, facing the ceiling, the both of them breathless and so alive and entirely intoxicated by everything, covered in sweat and spit and their respective bodily fluids, and it smelled like fire smoke and laundry and sex in there, and Lydia had never been happier in all her life.

"Lydia," he breathed, still staring at the ceiling in the dark.

"Yeah."

"We just had sex."

"We did."

He laughed, running a hand over his face, a hand through his sweaty hair.

She couldn't help herself – she laughed with him.

"Lydia," he whispered after a moment, turning to face her now.

"Yeah?"

"I love you too."

She smiled. And then she kissed him again.

* * *

**A/N: This chapter was awkward and funny and sexy and cringe-worthy but so, so worth it in the end – hey, sort of like _real sex._**

**Let me know what you thought of this chapter, guys! Hope you enjoyed it – more coming soon! Stay tuned!**

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Btw, "Cato" is pronounced "Kay-toe". It's a Roman name, as he is an Imperial. And yes I know it's lame.


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